


Shine On (You Crazy Diamond)

by larrymaybe22



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1970's AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Glitter, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rockstar Harry, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Student Louis, Substance Abuse, chasm - Freeform, famous/non-famous, glam rock au, roadie Louis, so much glitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 20:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larrymaybe22/pseuds/larrymaybe22
Summary: The year is 1974 and Britain’s glam rock scene is in full swing. Enter Louis, a broke and dejected student who finds himself on a tour bus of all places, working as a roadie for the enigmatic “womanizer” Harry Styles. Along the way, Louis discovers the cruelty of fame and that maybe there is more than meets the eye beyond the curls, cocaine, and crazy suits.A 1970's/Glam Rock AU





	Shine On (You Crazy Diamond)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my flipping gosh.....I literally can't believe this fic is finished. 
> 
> When I first signed up for Big Bang, my very first, I wanted a challenge and boy, was this a fuckin' challenge! The full story I originally planned was twice as long as this, but life decided to make that hard. Since signing up for BB, I had an unexpected death in the family, then the development of an unknown chronic illness that has affected me mentally and physically so much. 
> 
> So, I decided to split this story into two parts. After I take a much needed writing break, I'll get started on Part 2 of this fic. ALSO, even though there's going to be a part 2, this fic DOES NOT end in a cliffhanger, jsyk. :) 
> 
> I have people to thank! 
> 
> Lynda - This literally wouldn't have happened without your help. Thank you so much for keeping me going, making sure I put my health first, and listening to me rant about boys and unhelpful doctors. You're honestly like my beta fairy godmother at this point, and I see you very much as a friend. <3
> 
> Roni - Thank you for popping in halfway through my writing and being such a great friend, support, and Brit-picker. My four months abroad in the UK has nothing on your lifetime knowledge haha :) 
> 
> Marie - Thank you for being so kind, when I was a wannabe fic writer sliding into the inbox of one of her favorite writers to get an opinion on which prompt I should pick for my Big Bang and thank you for choosing this one. I'm still so pumped for the lighthouse au omg it's gonna be so good. 
> 
> Gina - Thank you for swooping in last minute and making a beautiful art piece for this fic! 
> 
> Also, as a disclaimer, none of this is real, it's all fiction and definitely not my opinion or any real depiction of the boys. Substance abuse is a very real thing and I tried to tackle the topic as honestly and respectfully as I could. 
> 
> OH! And one last thing - just imagine Liam with Michael Kelso hair. Just do it hahaha. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you like it! :) <3
> 
> Artwork by tomlinshires on tumblr https://tomlinshires.tumblr.com/

_“And I think it’s going to be a long long time_

_Till touchdown brings me round again to find_

_I’m not the man you think I am at home_

_Oh, no no no_

_I’m a rocket man…_

_Rocket man burning up his fuse up here alone.”_

Rocket Man – Elton John, 1972

**June, 1974. London, UK**

It can be heard from almost every direction, rumbling in the distance like a thunderstorm, the sound of hundreds of platform shoes racing down the concrete streets of the city.

Teenage girls (and even the most daring of boys) run as fast as they can, unaware and uncaring about unimportant things, such as oncoming traffic or other unassuming pedestrians. Tonight is the night they’ve been waiting for – For months? Their whole lives? It’s hard to tell. Regardless, tonight they only have one thing on their hormone-addled minds.

While their feet rattle like thunder, their voices strike like lightning. Their unmistakable squeals and shrieks are high enough in volume to drown out the ever-present soundtrack of honking and beeping.

They swarm the streets. From the buildings above, they look like an army of mice in Technicolor suede and beaded jackets, all storming together toward their next meal. These mice – these _fans_ – play follow-the-leader to the very same destination: The Roundhouse.

The Roundhouse in Camden is one of the hottest music venues in the city, the biggest names in the business having christened its metal walls. It also happens to be the venue for tonight’s sold-out show starring England’s very own Prince of Glam Rock, as dubbed by _Rolling Stone_.

The sidewalk outside the Roundhouse is overridden by screaming fans. A line stretches well over three blocks long, one fan right in front of the other, more anxious and excited than the next.

And maybe its minutes later, maybe it’s hours – they’re all too pumped up with adrenaline and other substances to tell – but the doors open and girls fight one another to be the first ones inside.

They pack as many people inside as they can, leaving no room at all for frivolous things like personal space or breathing room. It’s hot, standing tight body to body in such an enclosed space, but these people don’t care. They wouldn’t care if their only option was to stand for an hour in manure if it meant at the end they get to watch their idol perform right in front of their eyes, breathing the same air.

There’s chatter; some start to wonder what he’s going to wear this time and how amazing it’ll be to see it first before it makes the papers tomorrow. The energy inside the Roundhouse is high with anticipation, waiting for the curtains to rise, when all of a sudden – they hear it.

It’s ethereal.

The trickle of piano keys matched with the airy, escalating notes of an angelic choir create the illusion of floating on air - they’re all on a cloud, riding their way up to the Pearly Gates of Heaven, white lights shining down on them, almost blinding. Hearts start to beat out of chests, fingers start to tremble. Up and up they rise, higher and higher - be quick to find something to hold onto.

The curtain slowly but surely starts to rise and shrieking madness descends upon them, the walls around them reverberating.

It’s a slow, agonizing reveal as the curtain rises with every inch. It starts with the shoes – gorgeous platform boots made of hot pink and glittered patent leather that seem never-ending until they reach the knees. Then, skin-tight and silk powder-pink trousers that lace up in the front and tie up into a perfect little bow, hugging all the right places. Tonight it appears there is no shirt to hide a soft, inked belly, the crowd growing significantly louder at the sight of hard nipples doused unmistakably with shimmer as he all but glows under the spotlight. The only material covering his upper half is a perfectly tailored suit jacket the same shade as his boots, not an inch of fabric left without more sparkling glitter.

The curtain makes its way up to the rafters and there he is: Harry Styles.

He stands strong, chest out, presenting himself like a hot pink peacock, a devilish and knowing smirk on his face. His eyes are covered by a pair of big white round sunglasses. His chocolate curls tumble all the way down to his shoulders, poking out from underneath a pink sparkling top hat.

The intro music reaches its climax and Harry snaps. He rips off his glasses, tossing them into the audience before bringing his microphone up to his pouty, candy floss lips.

“ _Hey, hey!_ ”  

His voice rips through the room, full and alive, head tipping back as it takes over his whole body.

Harry struts across the stage, waving in all directions and dancing to the beat of the drums. His whole being tingles with the magic of the guitar, the sparkle in his eye can almost be seen from the back rows.

A vision in pink, he returns center stage and roots himself in front of the mic stand. His stance says: ‘This is my world. Welcome!’

“ _Open up your eyes, shut your mouth and see, that I’m still the only one who's been in love with me…_ ”

Seductive, calculative, he body rolls against the stand. He slinks down, down, down, until he’s on his knees, crooning, “ _Broke a finger knockin’ on your bedroom door. I’ve got splinters in my knuckles crawlin’ cross the floor. Couldn’t take you home to Mother in a skirt that short, but I think that’s what I like about it_.”

Harry Styles smirks when he sings, it’s a well-known fact. He knows what he’s doing – the effect he has on his audience. It’s almost as if he gets himself off watching them lose control over something so innocently simple as a thrust of a hip or a bite of a lip.

Drunk, drunk, drunk. He’s drunk on it. He’s drunk on the power it gives him. Drunk on the attention. Drunk on other things…

“ _She’s an angel. My only angel!_ ”

He dances as if no one else is in the room, but knows he has the focus of every eye. There isn’t a bird in that audience who wouldn’t sell herself just to fuck him and he plays it up, milks it for all that he’s got.

Walking over to the left side of the stage, he picks one at random, notes powered by the illusion of lust and sings directly into her eyes because he can.

“ _Told it to her brother and she told it to me, that she’s gonna be an angel, just you wait and see_.”

Harry bends down and reaches out for the girl’s hand. She’s in hysterics, probably no older than sixteen, body shaking so hard he can barely get a grip around her fingers, but he ignores it. It sparks him on even further. He pecks the top of her hand, leaving behind a pink lip stain that sends her into a bigger frenzy. Finally, he takes his top hat off his head and puts it onto hers before standing back to his feet. He doesn’t leave her sight without a wink, of course.

“ _When it turns out she’s a devil in between the sheets and there’s nothing she can do about it. Hey, hey!_ ”

Harry uses the guitar solo as an opportunity to turn his back on the audience for the first time, stalking upstage, not forgetting to emphasize the sway of his bum. He winks at his drummer, Sarah, who rolls her eyes and laughs at him while he grabs a bottle of vodka hidden underneath the drum platform.

The liquid burns down his throat in a delicious way as he takes a quick swig and then, of course, another because too much is never enough. He wipes his mouth and, regretfully, puts the bottle back. He’s been gone from his fans too long.

Back at center stage, he closes his eyes and lets himself feel the music. He lets his body move any which way it chooses, becoming looser, freer, the feeling of the alcohol dripping through his veins to reach the very tips of his fingers and toes.

Behind his eyes he sees a galaxy of brightly colored stars. He’s in a spaceship, zipping through the Milky Way, holding on for dear life by the strings of his guitar. The only thing that propels him forward is the pure magic of rock and roll.

“ _Wanna die, wanna die, wanna die tonight…wanna die, wanna die, wanna die tonight…_ ”

His jaw doesn’t fully form around the words, but it really doesn’t matter. Distantly, he knows the audience is there for his face first and foremost, but in this moment those thoughts are nowhere.

Harry’s mind is here, and it’s now, and _fuck,_ this is what it feels like to be alive, isn’t it?

“ _She’s an angel! Only angel!_ ”

This is what he’s living for. This is all that matters; music and sex and love and it drives his whole fucking world. He never wants to leave the stage, just like the fans don’t want him to. He’s never felt as high as he does right in this very moment.

“ _She’s an angel! My only angel! She’s an angel. My, my, my, only angel…_ ”

Then why, in those brief moments between songs, when the music’s gone quiet and the only sounds in Harry’s ears are the shrill ringing of screams and the overstimulation of his brain, does he always feel so dead inside?

***

Louis can’t help but sigh dramatically as he turns the corner toward the record shop.

Not too long ago he was sleeping off a particularly draining exam when Jed called him, begging him to come in on his day off to fill in for Perrie, who apparently was gifted tickets for a concert tonight as an early birthday gift.

Louis doesn’t understand why Perrie skipping out on her responsibilities is his problem (not to mention the fact that if Louis ever tried to pull the same stunt he might end up jobless instead) but the thing is, Louis needs the money no matter how loud he gripes about how unfair the situation really is. London rent isn’t cheap for a uni student on a budget, even outside the swanky neighborhoods.

It’s also something to do. And if there’s one word to describe Louis (other than maybe, loud, bossy, sassy, dramatic, or anything of that nature) it would be bored.

He’s so fucking bored and he’s only twenty-two. It’s an unfortunate side-effect of having no real direction in life. Without anything to look forward to, what is there to get up every day for? Classes to take that he isn’t and never has been interested in, despite the number of times he reminds his mother of this fact? A job that pays shit, only really enough to cover a room in a four-story walk up, basic groceries, and the occasional beer?

Despite spending his shifts constantly bearing the weight of knowing he’s going absolutely nowhere in life, there is an upside to his job.

Shady Lady Records is a small record shop in Camden located just on the north end of Chalk Farm Road. It isn’t much, only a handful of rows organized in alphabetical order, a till up front and racks of posters in the back. From floor to ceiling, the walls are covered in newspaper clippings that have been coated in lacquer and treated like wallpaper. It’s a dark sort of ambience, the only sources of light coming from a faux-crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and various lava lamps strewn all over the shop. It’s what Louis’ boss, Jed, calls calming and he’d probably have to agree. Louis may hate how stagnant he feels working there for the last two years making little pay, but he would be lying if he said it didn’t feel a little bit like another home to him. Not to mention he gets to listen to anything and everything his heart desires.

Well, not everything.

Coming up towards the entrance, he removes one of his hands from the pocket of his jean jacket to open the door. The bell chimes and he immediately sees Jed sitting behind the till, eating a piece of cake. The Stones play from the turntable in the back corner. _Brown Sugar_ , Louis believes.

“Lou, hey.” Jed mumbles, mouth full of cake.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Remind me why Perrie’s allowed to ditch work again and I’m no longer sleeping?”

He jumps behind the counter and snatches the plate of cake out of Jed’s hands, who grumbles in protest. He figures Jed owes him at least this much for helping him out. Louis chuckles smugly, perching himself onto his designated stool that he’s adorned with an array of stickers and doodles throughout the years. He takes a big bite of cake. Lemon, one of his favorites.

“Pez told me she’d put in a good word for me to Jade if I let her go to the concert tonight.”

Louis groans, half out of annoyance and half because of how fucking good this cake is. “Not this again, mate.”

“What?” Jed squawks indignantly. “Not all of us are born with natural bird-luring cheekbones.”

“Come off it,” Louis scoffs, not even trying to not sound annoyed. Still, he’d really rather not go down this road. _Again._

“Seriously. I keep tellin’ you, ‘bout half our customers come for the music but stay for you. Askin’ around for you when you’re not here.”

He needs to shut this down. Jed’s entering dangerous territory here.

“Give it a rest. You’re fluffing up my ego too much.”

He finishes off the cake and tosses the plate and fork under the counter to wash later. He needs something to do. He needs something that will hopefully distract him enough that he’ll seem too busy to answer questions that he really doesn’t want to answer.

He leaves the till, choosing to roam the aisles in search of something to play. He picks a spot at random to start with, happening on the P’s, thumbing through the records until something catches his eye.

Jed, however, doesn’t seem to want to let the conversation go.

“How come I never see you out with anyone?”

“What d’you mean? I go out with you and Liam all the time. Pez and the girls.” Louis’ deflecting, and he really hopes Jed isn’t smart enough to pick up on it.

“No, but I mean, you don’t fancy any of the girls.”  

Louis almost chokes on his own saliva, tearing his gaze quickly away from Pink Floyd’s _Atom Heart Mother_ back to his boss.

“Wh-what?”

Jed’s not looking back at him. He’s sorting through a glass jar of pins and separating them into different piles – probably setting aside the ones he wants for himself.

“The only girls I ever see you talk to are Perrie, Jade, Jess, and Leigh, and they don’t count. Not just ‘cos they’re coworkers and you have to talk to them, but I know you don’t fancy them either.”

Louis clears his throat, busying himself with the R section. “No, I don’t.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, mate! You’ve been working here for two years and not once have I heard you talk about going on a date.”

Without thinking twice, Louis’ comes to his own defense. “What do you know, Elliott? I hardly ever see you outside work. How do you know I don’t have a girlfriend? From school or summat? Some people like to keep that shit private.”

As soon as he says it, Louis wishes he could slap himself across the face. Partially because he’s now digging himself even deeper into danger, and also because of the surprised eyebrow raise coming from Jed.

“Really? _Do_ you have a girlfriend, Louis?”

He shudders, an uneasy feeling sinking down into the bottom of his stomach. He frowns, moving over to the S’s.

“No, I don’t.” He replies, quietly.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Why are you so interested in my so-called failure of a love life?” Louis’ voice raises half an octave, clearly still on the defensive.

The smirk on Jed’s face fades away, replaced by a much more serious look. He rests his arms out in front of him on the counter, the zippers of his faded leather jacket clinking against the neon-red glass.

“Look, Lou. I don’t mean to bust your balls. But do you seriously think I don’t notice how bummed out you’ve been lately? You’re always moping, staring off into space, or turning in early to watch telly instead of going out - Liam and I talk, mate. There’s no shame in being lonely, you know. Just wanna know how I can help you out.”

Louis sighs. “I’m not lonely, Jed.”

“Then what is it?” His boss presses. “Tell me what’s goin’ on with you, because you’re not yourself.”

Louis sighs again. This conversation isn’t any more enjoyable to have but at least it seems to be veering away from women, which already makes it a lot more comfortable territory for him.

“Do you – “Louis starts. “Do you ever feel like you’re the side character to the movie of your own life?”

Jed’s brow furrows, confused. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, like. The side characters are the ones standing in the background. They’re always there to support the main character through their story arc. Their whole existence is meant to cater to experiences of the main character. And by the end of the movie, you never know any more about them than you did at the beginning, because they never changed. They never become anything bigger than what they are. And the audience never gets to know what happens to them after the credits roll – do they achieve any of their dreams? Did they travel the world? Did they ever get the b- _girl_?” Louis pauses, cheeks slightly flushed from his almost slip up paired with the lack of taking a solid breath. “Does that make any sense?”

Jed still looks confused, though Louis gives him the benefit of the doubt. His word vomit stream of consciousness isn’t always the easiest to follow.

“So, are you saying that you aren’t the main character of your life?”

“Yes.”

“But, if _you_ aren’t the main character of your life, then who is?”

Louis laughs softly. “It’s not that anyone _else_ is the main character. It’s that – It’s that my life has no story at all. I don’t _do_ anything. There’s nothing _miraculous_ or, or _adventurous_ about my life. I wake up, I eat the same breakfast every day, then I go to a lecture. And then I sit in my lecture, and it all goes in one ear and out the other, and I sit there and think about how much I don’t care about anything my professors have to say. Then I come to work for a few hours, check through the same inventory, talk to the same customers. Then I go home and make whatever I can for dinner, which usually ends up being takeaway from down the street and start over again the next morning. And I know I’ve got mates and my family, but. There has to be more than this, right? _This_ can’t be all that’s out there?”

Louis looks back up again at Jed, having realized he got lost in his head again.

Jed just blinks back at him. “Shit, mate. I didn’t realize you were so unhappy.”

Louis shrugs. When it’s said out loud like that, it sounds a bit sad.

Neither of them have time to respond, however, because out of nowhere a fucking stampede of screaming girls race past the shop windows. It seems to last for a solid two minutes before the last of the pack fly by, their screams echoing as they run off further down the street.

Louis turns to Jed, eyes wide and round.

“What the fuck was that all about?”

Jed laughs. He steps around the till counter and peeks his head out the shop door. Despite being further away, Louis can still hear them, almost clearer than before.

“My guess is that their making their way to the Roundhouse at the end of the road. It’s where Pez is for that gig tonight.”

“Jesus,” Louis breathes, shaking his head. He’s glad he didn’t get caught up in that chaos. He likes all his limbs, thanks.

“Did she say who she was seeing?” Louis asks, continuing to search through the S’s where he left off before he became distracted by his quarter-life crisis.

“She did, but I can’t remember. Was some ridiculous sounding stage name. Though, the way she described him, he sounded a bit like a fruit if you ask me.”

As Louis pauses at a particular record in the stack, he determines he probably didn’t need to ask Jed anything more to figure out who it might be. The colony of manic adolescent girls that just swept through Camden makes a lot more sense to him.

Louis looks down at the record, familiar in ways to him that no one on this Earth would ever know about.

In the safe space of his bedroom back in Kentish Town, he’d memorized every inch of the album cover, from the vibrant green and lilac of the meadow background to the softest looking jumper of white and blue stripes. From alabaster skin and tousled, chocolatey tresses to two large front teeth and fuchsia lips. To the set of dimples that made Louis’ heart race faster than most other things.

He’d spent even more time memorizing every lyric, every chord, and every beat from within the album itself. The record only ever felt the touch of his player’s stylus whenever Liam was out of the flat, but it was still very well-worn, probably played more than any other record in his collection.

Louis’ body tingles with the knowledge of Harry Styles, the starlet of most of his darkest, deeply hidden desires, only a five minute’s distance from him.

_Nope. Not the time, not the place._

Louis forces himself away, picking up a random Paul Simon record and walking briskly over to the record player.

***

Lying flat across the sofa in front of the telly, Louis groans in discomfort, the fabric of his shirt clinging closely to his sweaty torso. The small window opened as wide as it possibly can does nothing to improve the stuffiness of a flat with no aircon during a heatwave in England.

He hasn’t left this spot since his last lecture ended at two, apart from the fifteen minutes he spent outside buying chips and cheese for dinner, and seeing as it’s already half-six, Louis would summarize his day as utterly, painfully, and devastatingly ordinary. ‘Twas another day wasted, alone in his dingy flat, no adventure in sight.

He didn’t even have his flatmate and best friend, Liam, here to listen to him complain for the umpteenth time about his overwhelming case of wanderlust and how it’s literally consuming his every waking minute.

No, because even Liam – shy, brilliant, socially awkward _Liam_ – is out tonight having a life. If there’s a reason for Louis to be grateful that his parents sent him to uni against his will, it’s that he got to meet Liam.

They met for the first time in the drama department. Part of the agreement he had with his folks was that if he was going to be forced to continue on to higher education, despite his contempt for academia altogether, Louis would at least be allowed to study in whichever field he wanted (that list being very, very short). He’d ultimately decided upon drama, seeing as at the time, Louis thought he might want to be an actor, which earned him an eye roll from his father, but a promise was a promise, so they agreed.

During his first term at the University of London, Louis had landed the role of Iago in the school of drama’s production of _Othello._

Louis loved it – he finally found something that got his blood pumping.

During that production, Louis met Liam, who worked as part of the technical crew. He was in charge of the lights, Louis came to learn, after he nearly killed the bloke. Liam had been changing out the colours on one of the PAR lights when Louis, goofing around backstage with the actor who was playing Othello, bumped into Liam’s ladder. Thankfully, Louis had quick enough reflexes that he steadied the ladder before it had the chance to topple over and bring Liam down with it, though not without either of them sweating with brief panic.

Louis immediately offered to buy Liam lunch, as it seemed at the time the right thing to offer as an apology to a stranger he almost killed. Liam brushed it off as nothing – the first example Louis witnessed showing Liam as the nicest bloke he’s ever met – but accepted the free meal. They’d been thick as thieves ever since, moving into their dingy flat in Kentish Town just before the start of the second year.

Unlike Louis, however, Liam actually stuck with the route he started with at uni. After a while, the glamour of the theatre faded away for Louis, losing his lust for it just as he did with every other hobby or infatuation he’s ever had in his life. Liam, on the other hand, fell even more in love with technical theatre, working his way up to being the Master Electrician of the whole drama department, hoping to one day turn it into a career.

Which is looking more likely, seeing as that’s what Liam’s been up to tonight. One of the drama professors introduced Liam to a local electrician who works the music circuit, and he decided to take Liam under his wing as an apprentice. Tonight, Liam is working his first gig with him – Alberto’s his name – doing the lights at some concert.

Louis was incredibly happy for his best mate when he heard, but had hoped the slight tick in his face hadn’t shown. Louis hates to admit it, but it does bum him out a little to see people around him start to get things rolling in their lives, and Louis just can’t seem to figure any of it out at all.

Not only that, but now Louis’ all by himself tonight, bored and lonely. He could masturbate again, but even _that_ sounds boring.

Louis spends the next fifteen minutes polishing off the rest of his chips, debating whether to finally do his laundry, and attempting to read a chapter of his reading assignment, all of which, minus the chip-eating, prove to be unsuccessful in quelling his unrest.

He’s just about to give in and have another wank – maybe in the shower this time, he’s got chip grease all over himself – when the landline rings. He pauses, curious. He and Liam hardly ever get callers, apart from the occasional salesman or activist.

He huffs as he struggles to get up, shuffling his feet against the creaking wood floor until he reaches the phone hanging on the wall beside the kitchen door.

“Hello?” Louis answers, trying his best to hold back a burp. Damn, those greasy fuckers.

“Lou!”

Upon hearing Liam’s voice, Louis’s posture automatically relaxes, leaning his shoulder against the peeling wallpaper.

“Leemo! Perfect. You could sense my boredom all the way across town, couldn’t you? What time –”

“Louis, what are you doing right now?” Liam interrupts, his voice urgent.

Louis’ brow furrows in concern. “Nothing, as always. What’s going on? Aren’t you at that gig right now?”

“That’s why I’m calling. One of our techies never showed up and we’re really fucking struggling. This bloke has one of the most complicated lighting designs I’ve ever seen, but that’s not important – how fast can you get here?”

Louis’ eyes bug out. “What?”

“Please, Lou? I already told them I knew someone who could help for the night. I know I probably shouldn’t’ve volunteered you, but I panicked! This is my first real job…”

Louis’ torn. He can’t be the reason Liam doesn’t get another opportunity like this. On the other hand, he doesn’t know the first thing about being an electrical technician.

“But…I don’t know anything about all that stuff. I’d probably fucking break everything.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ll help you. _And_ they said they’d pay you.”

Louis pauses at that. He _does_ need the money.

Liam’s speaking again before Louis can reply.

“Besides, aren’t you always saying that you never do anything crazy? I can’t think of anything crazier than us lads working backstage at a real live rock concert.”

Liam’s right. He’s fucking right – nothing Louis has ever done in his twenty-two years can compare to what Liam’s offering, now that he thinks about it.

“Okay, yeah. Brilliant,” Louis finally agrees, a buzz suddenly racing through him.

“Yes! _Thank you._ You’re literally saving my arse, mate.”

Louis laughs, knowing Liam is surely looking nothing short of an over-excited puppy on the other side of the line.

“No, it actually sounds fun. I can leave right now.”

“Thanks again, Lou, and – oh! I’ll wait out front for you out front the Roundhouse. Styles’ fans are absolutely mad. They’ll jump just about anyone who has access to backstage.”

Louis all but drops the phone out of his hands.

“I’m – I’m sorry, _what_ did you just say?”

“The girls, they’re nutters! I saw one of ‘em try to climb one of the tour managers, Paul –“

“No, no, no,” Louis doesn’t mean for it come out quite so much like a shout, but he’s experiencing an unexpected spike of pumping blood. “ _Whose_ fans?”

“Harry Styles? He’s playing the Roundhouse. Did I not mention that before?”

“ _No,_ you did _not,_ ” Louis responds, incredulously.

The thing is, Liam doesn’t know about Louis’… _preferences_ on certain things. No one does.

Louis isn’t even sure it’s because he doesn’t trust Liam with his biggest secret. He’s known Liam a long time – they’re best mates, and Liam doesn’t seem to have a prejudiced bone in his annoyingly chiseled body.

It’s just…hard. It’s hard. Louis’ seen things. Really awful things about the way the world views homosexuals. It’s not all bad, he knows – especially in a city as big and socially charged as London. Still, Louis can’t help but revel in the comfort he gets knowing no one else has access to his brain but him. His thoughts, his desires, they’re safe and sound within the bounds of his skull. If no one else knows, he’ll never have to find out for real whether or not he’s safe outside his mind, too. If he’ll still get to keep the ones that matter most to him.

It doesn’t make him feel any less disgusting for being how he is in the first place.

But to be more specific to Louis’ current dilemma, Liam _definitely_ has no clue about his borderline-creepy crush on the twenty-year-old _male_ rock star. Meaning, he really needs to fucking cool it, and not make his inner fantasy-realizing freak out more obvious than he already has.

“Well, yeah it’s him, and it’s his last show in London before he takes his tour to America, so it’s a huge deal.” Liam’s voice crackles a bit toward the end. He must be at a phone booth, Louis thinks. “Shit, just get down here as fast as you can. Show starts at eight and there’s still so much to do. Thanks again, Lou!”

Liam hangs up and Louis has to take a moment to process that whole conversation.

Louis’ doing Liam a favor, helping him work backstage at the concert of _Harry Fucking Styles._

He might just shit himself. What if he sees Harry backstage before the show? What if he gets to _talk_ to him?

And that’s honestly too much for Louis’ brain to handle at the moment. He puts the phone away, surveying the room for what he might need.

He picks up his wallet and his keys, reaching for his denim jacket hanging on the rack by the door when, thankfully, at the last minute Louis looks down and sees what he’s wearing: a grease-stained raggedy t-shirt and pyjama pants with holes in the knees.

Nope, that won’t do at all.

He runs to his room, hastily ripping various pieces of clothing off the hangers in his closet. He’s never rushed this fast to get ready to go somewhere in his life – mostly because he has no where exciting to go, thus never really needing to “get ready”.

Nothing looks right. Nothing he owns is fabulous enough for Harry Styles to take notice. But Louis’ is also aware of how little time he has to play dress up for a man who one, he probably won’t get to talk to, and two, won’t even have Louis on his radar at all seeing as he’s got a different leggy model on his arm every other week.

He also really wants Liam to keep his job, so he settles on a pair of worn jeans, a faded Stones t-shirt and his Chuck Taylors.

He grabs his jacket and is out the door and running down the street toward the nearest bus stop, having absolutely no fucking clue what’s in store for him.

***

Walking backstage at the Roundhouse with Liam after dodging hungry wolves disguised as teenage girls, Louis feels a bit like Alice, dusting himself off after falling down the Rabbit Hole.

Crew members race in every direction, barking orders at anyone who will listen.

Louis’ been to dozens of concerts in his life – from small gigs consisting of an artist and their piano, to full blown rock explosions, with wild mosh pits that leave your ears ringing for days afterward.

His favorite, hands down, has to be when he saw Elton John at the Royal Festival Hall at the beginning of 1972. There was something about that dreary February day, sitting out in the audience next to Liam for the kick off of the Honky Chateau Tour, that struck Louis. He remembers seeing almost nothing onstage except for the blinding sparkles of Elton’s violet, bedazzled blouse as he introduced what would become a favorite song of Louis’, _Rocket Man._ There was something about Elton John that captured Louis. He still doesn’t know to this day what it was, but Louis sat out in that audience in awe, wondering what it must be like to experience music from the other side, not just as a spectator.

He’s never been behind-the-scenes like this before and Louis already decides he loves it. It’s such a crazy energy, with so many people working so hard to put together a show who will always be invisible to the audience.

Liam guides Louis down a series of hallways, practically having to drag him as Louis observes everything like he’s Dorothy fresh out of Kansas. They stop when they reach a section of the backstage area with several ladders, hanging lights, and a fancy looking keyboard with dozens of knobs and levers. Standing in front of the board is a large man wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt, the words, “H.S. On Tour” embroidered in curvy letters on the breast pocket.

“Alberto! This is my flatmate, Louis. The one who volunteered to help out since Nick quit?” Liam explains to Alberto, Louis now recognizing him as Liam’s boss. He inwardly rolls his eyes at Liam’s particular word choice of “volunteered”.

Alberto smiles at Louis graciously, shaking his hand.

“Hello, son. Thanks for helping out.”

“No problem. I was bored at home, anyway,” Louis replies, hoping he doesn’t come across as too pathetic in his admission.

“That works for me. I’ll tell head of security to put your name down on the crew list.” He turns to address Liam. “I’m going to help them with the PAR’s and Altman’s on stage left. Can you handle things on this side?”

Liam smiles brightly, the excited puppy in him present. Louis tries his hardest not to laugh at him.

“Yes, we’ve got it.”

Alberto leaves, satisfied, and Liam and Louis get to work.

Or, Liam gets to work. Louis stands next to him at the board and attempts to pay attention to Liam’s explanations of what he is doing, but there’s so much of it and Liam talks so fast that most of it goes over his head. He holds the ladder for him as Liam installs some of the lights, handing him tools every now and then. Mostly though, Louis just follows his mate around, clueless.

After about an hour of silence between them other than Liam explaining to Louis he was “programming cues”, Liam pauses to address him, whole body clearly in work-mode. It amuses Louis, and he feels a bolt of happiness for his best friend, who so obviously loves being here, doing what he loves. He’s happy Liam has this.

“Lou, I need you to find the extra extension cables,” Liam orders, interrupting Louis from his thoughts. He’s pleased that he’s actually being given a chance to be helpful rather than standing awkwardly, feeling like he’s just getting in the way of everyone.

“Okay, I can do that. Where would I find them?”

Liam unhooks a particular ring of keys from the carabiner dangling from one of the belt loops of his jeans. Louis’ eyes widen comically, having not noticed earlier just how many sets of keys and tools Liam’s currently sporting on his person. That can’t be comfortable, can it? Surely all that metal is quite heavy, not to mention the constant, annoying clanging every time he so much as moves his thigh.

Liam tosses the keys to Louis, who just barely manages to catch them against his chest. Liam laughs, prompting Louis to flip him a V in response.

“Shut up.”

Liam’s laugh comfortably fades as he continues on inspecting the snake-like piles of wires at their feet.

“They’re out underneath the tour bus parked out back. _Not_ the red one, the black one. The red one is for the band.”

Louis’ heart skips a beat at that fact. _The band._ Did that include Harry Styles? The show is set to start soon. While the crew prep backstage, where is he? Does he have a dressing room somewhere in the building? He knows that some venues do. Is he out on the bus – the _red_ one – having a pre-show kip? Doing vocal exercises, or whatever else rockstars do before they perform for hundreds of screaming fans?

He steers himself away from the dangerous path his thoughts are wandering down.

“Got it,” Louis replies.

Liam straightens his back and points down one of the hallways.

“Just go down that way and to the left toward the exit. That goes out to the alley where the buses are parked. Oh, and the extension cables are bright orange, you won’t miss them.”

Louis fixes his posture, saluting his friend before adding a cheeky wink.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Liam rolls his eyes fondly before returning to what he was doing. “Get out of here. Hurry back, please.”

“Don’t worry, Payno,” Louis shouts over his shoulder as he heads down the hallway Liam just instructed him to. “I’ll do you proud. I’m a good little helper!”

He finds the exit Liam described easily and lets himself out, finding himself in a wide, brick lined alleyway, just as he had expected. Louis can hear the faded shrill screams from the opposite side of the building.

The alleyway is empty save for Louis and two large 1973 chrome Silver Eagle buses, one parked right in front of the other. They were nearly identical to each other in size and shape, the only difference between the two being their individual sliver of colour; the one closest to Louis trimmed in onyx black, the one on in front of it a sweet cherry red.

The red catches his eye. It stands out loudly amongst the reflective silver and dull, muddied brick surrounding it. Louis’ gaze shifts to the dark tinted windows, all tightly shut. Could there possibly be someone on the other side of them?

Louis notices the screams getting slightly quieter and he briefly wonders if that means they’ve opened the doors. It still seems early, but the thought pushes him to turn away from the mysterious, off-limits red bus and head toward the less interesting black one.

He doesn’t have to walk far, just a few metres away from the steps of the door he just came out of. The crew must have parked the equipment bus as close as possible to make loading and unloading the bus easier.

He thumbs the key and unlocks the boot under the bus with relative ease.

Liam is right. The first thing Louis sees upon sliding open the door are the circular piles of two bright orange extension cords. He grabs them, checking to make sure he hasn’t missed any others before hooking an extension cord over each of his shoulders. He slides the boot door shut again and relocks it.

He’s just about to turn around and head back inside to get these cords to Liam, when he hears a brief _thump_ , followed by the distinct sounding of giggling.

Louis looks carefully around the alley on his side of the buses, no one to be seen.

He shrugs, thinking he probably imagined the sounds, except no – there’s another, louder _thump_ most definitely coming from the other side of the buse. Louis’ sure of it now. More giggling follows.

Louis knows that he needs to get the cords back to Liam. He told Liam he’d hurry back, but… His curiosity gets the better of him, thinking perhaps a fangirl or two managed to sneak away from the front entrance, looking for restricted access.

Quietly, Louis walks slowly around the back of the black bus, body on high alert in case he has to protect himself from an attack. He isn’t too fond of the idea of death-by-fourteen-year-olds. He takes a deep breath before finally rounding the bus to the other side and –

Louis stops dead in his tracks, mouth falling slack.

The first time Louis lays eyes on Harry Styles, he never imagined it would happen like, well, _this._

There, about five metres down the alley, is twenty-year-old Harry Styles, in all his wondrously gorgeous glory.

He’s slumped back against the side of the red bus, head lolling slowly from side to side – probably explaining the thump. He’s wearing an emerald green suit of soft looking velvet, the lapels lined with silver rhinestones. Underneath, he’s got on a white blouse, nearly unbuttoned save for the last three, two exposed sparrows of weathered ink causing Louis’ palms to sweat.

Harry’s conscious, though just barely, the rock star seemingly relying almost entirely on the red bus to keep himself upright. He’s blinking slowly, his pink plush lips fallen open. His curls are a wild mess, looking tangled and oily. If Louis’ eyes don’t deceive him, he can just make out what looks like white residue underneath the boy’s left nostril.

Louis also finds it important to add that Harry is most definitely _not_ alone.

Down on her knees in front of him is a girl, long wavy blonde tresses being the only thing coming between Louis’ eyes and a view he has fantasized about far too many times than he is comfortable acknowledging.

The girl curves her back and bobs forward, gripping at the back of the singer’s thighs, eliciting a low groan out of him. Harry’s eyes loll into the back of his head, probably due to the explosion of stimulation that’s bound to be running through him, arousal dancing with that suspicious white powder.

Louis’ hot all over. He shouldn’t be watching this; really, _really_ shouldn’t be standing there like a fucking pervert as the groupie continues to suck Harry off. But, of course Louis’ legs stop working, invisible cement drying around his Chuck’s.

He’s mesmerized and terrified at the same time. Louis’ admired this boy from afar ever since he first saw him on the cover of NME magazine last year, the famed publication praising this rising star, all dimpled and curly, who seemed to have descended upon London from out of nowhere.

Louis wants to move closer. He wants to study every freckle, figure out the actual shade of his eyes, ask him what his favorite song is, what he listens to when he’s sad, if he likes to read. He feels drawn to him in a way he can’t quite explain, and ever since he stood behind the counter at Shady Lady and memorized every detail of that black and white cover photo with the _fucking_ collar, Louis’ decided he wants to _know_ this boy.

Except, Louis’ almost forgotten about the entire picture painted before him. As soon as he does, the blatant reminder practically punches him in the gut.

Louis, in any universe, will never get to know him like this faceless girl gets to. He’ll never get to make him writhe with bliss like she evidently is.

Because Harry isn’t _wrong_ like Louis. An abomination. Sick.

The girl must be really ace at giving head, because Harry jerks suddenly, freeing Louis from thinking another damning thought about himself. Instead, Louis’ pulse increases at the panic of finally getting noticed.

Louis wills his feet to work, but before he can make a proper retreat unscathed, Harry’s head rolls to his left, his heavy eyelids lifting to lock gazes with Louis.

Louis’ breath catches. Harry Styles is looking directly at him, and he’s hit with multiple feelings all at once. Embarrassment, from being caught playing Peeping Tom. Shame, for being unable to destroy his continuing desire for the boy. And, most surprisingly, a twinge of sadness. Because getting a better look into his barely-there stare and blown pupils, Louis can see that Harry Styles is fucked up. Coke, the obvious culprit. Perhaps alcohol, too.

Louis doesn’t know what he expects Harry to do when he realizes he’s being watched, but he certainly doesn’t expect what he gets.

Sloppily, looking Louis up and down, Harry smirks, his left dimple coming to life. Then he adds a cheeky wink.

Before Louis has time to react, or even really process all of that, the moment is gone. Faceless girl bobs down on him again and Harry _thumps_ his head back against the red bus, eyes falling shut.

Louis bolts.

He walks as fast as he can back up the steps, slamming the door shut behind him. He retraces his steps back down the hall the way he came, nearly colliding into Liam, who he hadn’t noticed before, coming toward him down the hallways.

“There you are, Lou! What took you so long? I was just about to come and look for you,” Liam asks, brows furrowed in concern. Always the astute one, Liam reads the distress all over Louis’ face. “Are you okay?”

Louis blows air out of his lips, still very much flustered.

“Sorry, mate. There was, um – there were some fans who were trying to sneak onto the buses,” he lies. “I scared ‘em off.”

Liam studies him for a moment before he chuckles, body relaxing. He claps a hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Nice job, Lou. Told you they were a bunch of loons.”

Louis just nods in loose agreement rather than saying anything else about the last several minutes of his life.

Liam grabs one of the bunches of extension cords from Louis – which, Louis forgot entirely that he is still holding – and turns to guide him back toward the backstage area.

“Thanks for fetching these. Let’s go, we don’t have much time left.”

Which turns out to not be the truth. After fifteen minutes installing and programming the remaining few lighting colours and cues, or rather, Liam installing and programming the remaining colours and cues while Louis handed him the necessary tools, Alberto returns from stage left to reprieve them.

“I can finish up here, boys. Everything’s looking great, Liam.” Alberto turns to Louis. “And you, too, son. We appreciate you coming down to help tonight.”

Louis smiles. “It was no problem at all, sir. Though, not sure I was all that much of an extra help. Liam still did most of the work.”

Alberto waves him off. “Nonsense. But, we’ll definitely get some use out of you after the show when we strike. Gonna need all the sets of arms we can getting packing everything back on the bus.”

Louis shudders at the thought of heavy lifting, not being the strongest man on the block, but laughs nonetheless. “Looking forward to it.”

“Now, why don’t you lads enjoy the show in the meantime? Grab a pint and situate yourself in the crew box,” Alberto suggests, beginning to take over where Liam left off.

That definitely gets Louis’ attention. As he had sat on the bus on the way over here, practically buzzing with nervous and curious energy, not knowing what to expect at all, it didn't occur to him that he might actually get to watch Harry perform.

 _Fuck._ Louis’ _really_ been unprepared for this whole night, hasn’t he?

“Won’t you need our help, though? There’s still quite a bit left and –“

“Nah, I’ve got it. Show’s delayed anyway. They can’t find the kid yet. The singer – always running off, I hear.”

Louis stands stiffly, uncomfortable. He bites down on his tongue to prevent any comments from escaping him regarding Harry’s whereabouts.

Liam, unaware of Louis’ sudden unease, grins widely at Alberto.

“Thanks, boss! We’ll see you after the show then.”

Alberto nods his head before focusing on his work. Liam grabs Louis by the crook of the elbow and guides the two of them down a series of corridors, eventually ending up in the Roundhouse front lobby.

Louis’ hypothesis of the doors already being opened turns out to be correct as there are no longer hundreds of bodies waiting in lines outside on the sidewalk – which is now barren. Walking through the doors into the venue space, Louis finds them instead rampaging not unlike animals loose in a zoo, too many of them to count, fighting for the best possible view.

It’s madness and Louis is immediately overwhelmed.

“I’m gonna grab us some beers, Lou!” Liam shouts in his ear over the fracas. “Just give one of the security guards your name and he’ll take you to the crew box.”

Louis opens his mouth to protest, wanting to come with him so he isn’t left alone, but his friend has already vanished.

Louis looks around himself, not for the first time tonight feeling overwhelmed. It’s been a while since he’s been to a gig and he’s not used to being around this many people in one room. Not to mention the fact that his brain suddenly reminds him _whose_ gig this is, which then morphs into thoughts of red buses and chest tattoos and sinful noises.  

Louis exhales heavily out his nose and closes his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

When he opens them again, he finds a security officer eying him curiously. Louis realizes that he’s standing in the middle of one of the walkways, no doubt looking half like he’s about to vomit and half like he’s about to come.

He rubs his hands down his face. He needs to get a fucking grip. If he doesn’t find a way to cool off a bit, Liam will know something’s wrong with him. And that’s another issue; how is he meant to come across to Liam as someone who has never listened to one of Harry’s songs before? He feels no different than any of these girls here, only his screaming is happening on the inside because he’s too terrified of doing anything else. Just watch, the boy is going to sing _Temporary Fix_ and it’ll be so obvious, Liam’ll say: “You’re a fag, aren’t you?”

Louis takes another deep breath. He needs a drink. Where the hell is Liam with his beer?

Louis finally gets himself moving and approaches the security guard.

“Erm, I’m Louis Tomlinson? Where am I meant to go for for the crew box?”

The security guard eyes him up and down, unimpressed, before inspecting the list he has in his hands.

Louis starts to worry that Alberto might have forgotten to have his name put down until the guard _harrumphs,_ grunting, “This way.”

He’s led through the throngs of anxious and impatiently waiting fans who give him dirty looks as he passes them by. Eventually, the security guard lets him in to what Louis guesses is the crew box everyone keeps mentioning.

It’s a fairly large squared off section in the middle of the crowd, metal gates separating them from everybody else. Louis steps inside and the security guards relocks it after him and leaves, presumably returning to his post.

There are several other people inside the crew box, all wearing the same “H.S. On Tour” shirts, which makes him feel slightly less awkward. There are also a few others in the box, and if the large cameras they’re all holding are anything to go by, he’d have to guess that this is where the press watch the show too. Some are even holding notebooks open to fresh pages. Journalists, Louis deduces.

“Lou!”

Louis turns around as he sees Liam get let into the box, a beer in each hand. He holds one out for Louis to take, which he all but yanks out of Liam’s grip. He takes a big swig and prays for the alcohol to ease the anxiousness.

“So what do you think?” Liam starts, conversationally. “Reckon the bloke will be any good? Gotta say, don’t know much ‘bout him. Been living under a rock, I suppose. Haven’t been able to listen to the radio since I fucking dropped it – I’ve almost saved up enough to replace it by thy way, I haven’t forgotten. Anyway, I heard the kid’s all over the radio these days. Too bad I didn’t get to work the show last night, but…”

As Liam keeps talking, which he tends to do, Louis drinks. He doesn’t come up for air until his glass is half empty.

“Have you heard any of his stuff, Lou?”

Louis lowers his glass and wipes his mouth with his jacket sleeve. He can already feel the alcohol moving through his veins and up into his head.

“I’ve, erm. I’ve heard a bit, yeah. People come into the shop for his record all the time.” He hiccups, hoping his lie suffices. Well, it’s not entirely a lie. Harry’s record _is_ one of the most popular records they’ve got in stock at the moment.

For the next minute, Louis polishes off the rest of his beer while Liam chats away to really no one in particular. The crowd is getting louder, clearly growing more restless the longer they’re expected to wait for Harry to show up. A thought crosses Louis’ brain briefly, wondering if he and that girl in the alley decided to take things further than a quick blow job against the side of the tour bus. Maybe they took it inside, getting messy and sweaty while everyone else in the building runs around like headless chickens trying to track him down.

Then, it starts.

The house lights fall and the crowd’s cheering is louder than before – no doubt, hundreds of people will be waking up with sore throats in the morning.

Louis recognizes the first few bars of _Only Angel_ and his breath catches. The curtain slowly starts to rise up into the rafters and he sees Harry Styles for the second time tonight.

Louis already notices a difference in this Harry, the one standing tall and strong all on his own, basking in the spotlight, compared to the Harry he came across outside, slumped over and high.

He’s still in his green velvet suit, only the trousers are done up properly instead of bunched around his thighs. His white blouse is buttoned all the way to the top and a large white bow is knotted tightly around his neck. He’s also got makeup on now, Louis notices. Not much, but sparkling green eyelids and accentuated eye lashes. The green glitter slides around his eye on one side, spilling down his left cheek.

Louis feels a bit like Dorothy looking up at the Wizard with awe and a hint of fear. The Roundhouse is Emerald City. Liam, his Toto.

“ _Hey, hey!_ ”

Louis doesn’t take his eyes off of the boy for the entire show. Every moan into the microphone, every swing of his hips or twitch of his long, delicate-looking fingers, Louis follows with his gaze in silence. He doesn’t sing along, like he had feared he might. Instead, he listens, standing the most still he thinks his body has ever been able to be, mesmerized. Song after song, that desire in the pit of his belly grows stronger.

If it were possible, he’d will his bones to turn elastic, just so he could hold out his hand and reach all the way over the crowd. Just so he could _touch._

This Harry Styles is alive. There’s no other way for Louis to describe what he sees. No longer does he look five seconds away from dropping, eyes rolling into the back of his head. His eyes are bright, wide – he jumps, prances, _dances_ his little fucking heart out, clenching his eyes in obvious bliss. It’s almost as if being on stage is the rockstar’s recharge button. Like the stage sends electricity up through his boots and into his curls – maybe that’s why they stick up in twenty-five different directions.

Louis doesn’t realize, but it brings a smile to his face. Harry’s exuberance is contagious, infecting every single person in the room. He thinks he gets it, why he drives all the girls mad.

By the time Liam finally gets his attention – who knows for sure how long he’s been shaking his shoulder – Louis is winded.  

He somehow manages to tear his eyes away from the stage, facing Liam.

“What?”

Liam leans in close, speaking into his ear. “There’s only one song left. We got to go backstage.”

No, he doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay and listen. This can’t be over just yet.

“Okay.”

The word falls out of his mouth, though it sounds weird, strained. Luckily, Liam doesn’t pick up on it, turning to sneak out of the metal gates along with a few of the other crewmen.

Louis reluctantly follows him out, though he watches Harry as he leaves, taking in every last second of this. He trips on his feet, a result of alcohol and unsuccessfully attempting to walk and look behind him at the same time.

The last thing he sees before he ultimately gives up, turning around to rush after Liam toward the backstage entrances, is Harry, eyes shut in his own little world, jumping up and down on stage, surrounded by a chorus of “la, la’s” like he doesn’t care about the thousands of people carefully watching his every step.

“ _She’s a good girl. She feels so good, she feels so good…_ ”

Once they reach the same area they were in when Louis first arrived, several crew members surround a large burly man wearing a tight black t-shirt tucked into his blue jeans. He holds a clipboard and a serious expression and it’s immediately apparent that whoever this man is, he’s The Boss.

As if Liam can read Louis’ mind after all, he leans in to whisper in his ear. “That’s Paul Higgins. Harry’s tour manager.”

“Ah,” Louis nods. That definitely explains why the bloke looks as if he’s been holding in a scream underneath his smile for who knows how long.

There’s suddenly a deafening roar coming from the crowd as the house lights fall dark. People immediately start rushing about, getting themselves into position for whatever’s about to happen.

“Alright, everyone,” Paul shouts over the din. “After the encore we have fifteen minutes to get Harry ready and back onto the bus - and whoever’s been handling him for the past few nights, _please_ for the love God, stay with him until I get there. No more losing him - and no one else on the bus tonight. I’m not in the mood to deal with any squatters.”

 _Squatters?_ Louis thinks to himself. He doesn’t even want to try to understand what that means.

The lights come back up and Harry’s voices filters through the air again, hundreds of girls singing along to _Kiwi_ **.**

So. Working as a stagehand is chaotic. And exhausting.

In the moments leading up to end of Harry’s encore, everyone backstage goes into overdrive. People shouting directions and orders at each other over the noise. The craziness gets even more intense once the lights go out and Harry comes sauntering off stage, panting heavily through his smile and sweating like a sparkly dog.

The singer walks right past Louis, his band trailing closely behind, laughing about some chick they saw in the audience or some other anecdote Louis stops paying attention to as his eyes follow the back of Harry’s head, slack-jawed.

“ _Oof!_ ” Louis moans, as a random crewman drops a heavy box into Louis’ unsuspecting arms.

“Look alive, kid,” the man chuckles. “Take that out to the buses.”

Louis adjusts the box in his grip to prevent it from slipping. Liam slides up next to him carrying an equally large box, though without the struggle.

Louis rolls his eyes. _The weight-lifting bastard._

“C’mon, Lou. Almost finished.”

After a couple more hours of heavy lifting – Jesus fucking Christ, how many instruments does one bloke need? – Louis’ arms officially feel like noodles as he hands his last metal case of equipment to Alberto, who stacks it on top of the others underneath the black bus.

Paul eyeballs everything, checking everything off his clipboard, no doubt making sure everything is accounted for. Louis takes the opportunity to stretch out his limbs, praying he doesn’t look like a weak pansy in front of all these burly men.

“That’s all, boys,” Paul says. “Lock her up and let’s get out of here.”

Louis sighs in relief, Liam quietly chuckling next to him. Louis nudges him in the ribs playfully while Paul slams the boot shut with a loud grunt.

Paul straightens himself, wiping his hands on his faded Levi’s. Louis and Liam stop hitting each other back and forth when they notice him wading through the other crew members milling about directly toward them. Paul holds his hand out in front of Liam.

“Liam Payne, right?”

“Yes, sir!” Liam perks up, taking Paul’s hand, shaking it vigorously.

“Alberto had nothing but good things to say about you, and I have to agree. Tonight went smoother than it has almost all tour, minus the delay, but of course that wasn’t any of your fault. Nearly shit myself when I got the call this morning that our usual Master Electrician was in hospital. Thank you and Alberto both for coming down on short notice.”

Louis smiles to himself as he watches his best friend positively preen at the praise. Liam works harder than anyone else he knows, is always so passionate about his work. Liam deserves the recognition.

“Thank you, sir!” Liam takes back his hand. “Thank you trusting me with all of your equipment. I’m very appreciative of the opportunity, you have no idea.”

Paul chuckles, loud and deep and a smile on his face. “That’s actually what I came over here to talk to you about.”

Liam’s brow furrows, confused. Standing to the side of the exchange, Louis looks between the two men with anticipated curiosity. He holds his breath for Liam, a sneaking suspicion stewing in his brain that his best mate is in for something good.

“I talked to Alberto earlier, and he’s already on board, but he suggested I come and ask you myself.”

“Ask me what?”

“How would like to join the official tour crew? We’re headed to America on Wednesday.”

Liam’s eyes bug out as his jaw drops. He’s frozen in place, unable to speak. Louis takes it upon himself to shake his flatmate back to life.

“ _Li!_ ”

Liam can’t hide the grin that’s forming on his face. “Are you serious?”

Paul claps the back of Liam’s shoulder. “Completely, son. Twenty-three shows, ten weeks, paid. What do you say?”

Liam opens and closes his mouth like a fish, overwhelmed and at a loss for words. He turns to his right, meeting Louis’ elated eyes. “Lou?”

Louis grips both of Liam’s shoulders. “Yes!” He hooks his left arm around Liam’s neck, pulling him in closer. “Yes. He says yes.”

Liam breathes out a laugh and turns his attention back to Paul, his whole face lit up with excited bewilderment.

“Yes, then. I’ll do it!”

Louis is over the moon for Liam. This opportunity to go on tour with a real rockstar, working backstage for real concerts, is monumental. This is a _huge_ step for Liam toward his career and Louis could not be happier for him. His best mate is about to start living his dream.

A wave of sadness jumps out over the joy, but is quickly squashed. This is good news. This isn’t about Louis and how much he’s suddenly reminded of how little direction he has in his life.

Louis shakes off the unnecessary jealousy. News like this calls for a celebration – a pub night. Louis’ just about to suggest the idea to Liam when Paul speaks up again, this time, his gaze set on Louis.

“You, too.”

Louis lets go of Liam. “Pardon?”

“You’re coming, too.” He doesn’t phrase it like a question as he did for Liam. It was a statement, seemingly bound by some level of established truth, ending with a period.  

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up straight to the sky.

“ _Me?_ ”

Paul nods. “We could always use another roadie.”

“But... “ Louis starts, heart rate picking up. “But, I was just helping out for the night. I don’t, like, _actually_ know anything about doing, you know, all of this? What kind of help would I be?”

“You’ve got two hands and two feet. We’ll find a place for you, don’t worry. We’ll show you the ropes and after a while it’ll become second nature. It’s not rocket science, kid.”

Louis still doesn’t really understand what’s happening. He can’t wrap his brain around what he’s being asked.

“But…”

“Listen. It really doesn’t matter if you have any technical experience or not. It’s lucky that you turned out to be buddies with Payne here. You’ve been asked to come along. Wasn’t really given much choice, to be honest with ya. We’d have offered you money to come to America just to sit and look pretty if we had to.”

Now Louis was _really_ confused.

“What? Asked by whom?”

“By Styles.”

Out of all the things that could have possibly come out of Paul’s mouth, _that_ is certainly not what Louis ever in his life expected to hear.

Louis’ jaw all but hits the pavement. “Styles? As in… _Harry_ Styles?”

Paul raises an amused eyebrow. “That’s what I just said, innit?”

Louis’ stammering like a fucking idiot. He can only imagine what his face looks like. Liam is no doubt just as confused, if not more, than Louis about all this. A sudden flash crosses Louis’ brain of red buses and high, orgasming rockstars.

“Harry Styles asked _me_ to come on tour? Are you taking the piss out of me?” Louis asks, his heart beat increasing at the cruel but most likely prospect of this being a joke. It has to be a joke. Right?

Paul rolls his eyes at Louis, though not necessarily annoyed by his reaction.

“He saw you backstage, he said. Wondered why he’d never seen you before. I told him you were just helping out for the night and he insisted you stay.” Paul snorts to himself, as if laughing to some joke he thought of in his own head. “Honestly, I stopped questioning the kid ages ago. He gets what he wants.”

_He saw you backstage…insisted you stay._

_He gets what he wants._

Louis’ going to fucking die.

Obviously, Harry was a lot more coherent than Louis originally thought, which means Harry totally remembers Louis standing there, a spectator to his pre-show tryst. Louis wonders if Harry also noticed the desire in Louis’ eyes, zeroing in on the girl. He wonders if Harry could tell – could see the thoughts forming inside Louis’ brain, wondering what it would be like to be in her place.

“I – I’m not sure,” Louis finally replies, his fringe falling slightly in his eyes as he shakes his head back and forth in a gesture of hesitant protest.

No. The answer needs to be no. Louis can’t spend weeks on the road in a foreign country, living in close quarters with strangers – strangers with judging eyes, watching his every move, all while ignoring the stress of potentially running into Harry at any given moment.

Louis could be found out, and he just – _can’t_. That’s not an option.

“Could you please give us a moment, Paul?” And, oh, Liam. In the midst of his internal crisis, Louis almost forgot he was there.

Liam smiles apologetically at his new boss and pulls on Louis’ arm, walking them a few steps away for, what Louis guesses is privacy.

“What are you doing, Lou? Say yes to this!” Liam rushes out, quietly. He’s not mean in his tone – that’s just not part of Liam’s nature anyway – but rather he looks at Louis with wild, excited eyes.

Louis rubs the back of his neck, nervous being under Liam’s microscope. Liam is the only person in the world, probably save his mum, that Louis feels completely comfortable with. That being said, Louis can’t help but squirm any time _anyone_ gives him too much of their attention at any given time. There are too many opportunities for Louis to slip up, give away too much of himself.

“I just don’t know, Li…”

“C’mon, Lou. Gimme _one_ reason why you should say no?” Liam pushes.

Well, that’s a question with quite an obvious answer. It’s not the one he gives though.

“I’ve got a job, Liam,” Louis supplies, quite pleased with himself for how quickly he thought of the excuse. Though, it’s not really an excuse. He _does_ have a job. “I can’t leave Jed all alone. It gets busy in the summer.”

“Come off it, Jed’ll be fine. Besides, he’s got the girls,” Liam argues, picking up on Louis’ bullshit.

Louis can’t think of another way he could possibly convince Liam to leave him behind and go without him. He’s floundering, shuffling on his feet and Liam, the wonderful lad he is, grabs a gentle hold on the outside of Louis’ shoulder, grounding him in one place.

Liam sighs, as if he’s about to lay it all out for Louis and he’s preparing himself, looking as serious as Liam ever is. Uncomfortable with his best friend’s insistence that this pseudo -peptalk include unnecessary eye contact, Louis focuses his gaze on one of his sideburns instead.

“Look. Aren’t you the one who’s always saying that you feel stuck here? That you want an adventure? I can’t think of anything more perfect than this, mate.” Liam starts to laugh, his own excitement building up again once more. He uses his grip on Louis’ arms to give him a little shake, as if Liam can physically generate excitement into Louis as well. “And just think! You and me, getting to see _America?_ Honestly, Lou, this could be just what you need.”

Louis bites down on his tongue, because goddamn it. Liam’s right.

He’s so fucking right. Louis allows himself to daydream for a moment – crystal clear images of open fields that stretch for miles, cities with skyscrapers higher than anything London’s ever seen, beaches that are actually _warm._ A chance to witness what’s out there in the world beyond this tiny island he’s never managed to escape.

It’s everything Louis’ ever dreamt of, but never actually thought he’d get to have.

_Fucking hell._

 ***

“No,” Jay’s voice filters through the receiver, short and decisive. “No, Louis.”

“Mum,” Louis sighs, trying to balance the telephone between his shoulder and his ear while he attempts to fold a pair of jeans in the middle of his floor.

His room is in a right state, articles of clothes strewn everywhere in piles of organized chaos, waiting to be packed away in Louis’ tiny green duffel bag. He and Liam leave for New York tomorrow morning and, of course, he’s been too much of a nervous wreck to remember important things, like packing.

How does a person even pack for ten whole weeks? America is hot in the summer, right? Does he even need to bring a jacket? And honestly, since when does Louis have _this_ much shit?

“Louis, you’ve been smoking too much marijuana if you think I’m going to let you spend the entire summer on some _bus_ in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of nefarious rock and rollers.”

Louis rolls his eyes at his mother’s scandalized tone, failing again in his mission to fold a simple pair of denim jeans, the material determined to get tangled in the spiraled cord of Liam and Louis’ bright yellow rotary phone they bought at an estate sale for five quid. He gives up, rolling them into a ball and stuffing them in the bag.

“Mum, quit worrying. It’s _America,_ not some deserted island,” Louis tries to reason. He knew in the back of his mind that waiting until the day before they head out for Heathrow to give her a call and say, _Hey Mum! How are the girls? By the way, I’m going to America tomorrow to go on tour with a gorgeous rockstar for ten weeks, just in case you tried to call,_ wouldn’t go over too well.

He didn’t actually say the word gorgeous, of course, but you know. He thought it.

“If I can’t drive to come rescue you when something inevitably goes wrong, it might as well be the middle of nowhere,” Jay huffs. Louis can picture her now, pacing in the kitchen of his childhood home in Doncaster, stress-making a cup of tea.

“What can I say to convince you that I’m going to be fine?” Louis asks, ready for this conversation to be over so he can go back to freaking out that he’s going to see Harry again in less than twenty-four hours.

“I know how these types of people are, Lou. I read the papers,” she says, ignoring his question. “You’re going to leave my baby boy and come back all filthy with tattoos and addicted to Lord knows what, a needle still dangling from your arm! That is, if you even come back at all.”

Louis sighs, setting aside his clothes to sit down from his position on his knees, crossing his legs together. He readjusts the phone to hold the plastic handset to his ear in one hand, holding the base in his lap with the other.

“I’m going to come back, Mum. I promise,” Louis says gently. “I just – I just need to do this. I need to go out and do something crazy for once in my life and see what’s out there.” He hopes she can hear the desperate sincerity in his voice. “And besides, Liam will be with me. He’ll keep me out of trouble,” Louis tacks on for good measure. His mother has always adored Liam, the handsome, moderately responsible miniature adult that he is.

Jay is quiet for a moment on the other end, her breathing the only indication that she’s still there. Eventually, she speaks up again. “I just worry about you, poppet. I’m a parent.”

“I know,” Louis smiles. “The best parent.”

And she really is. For a long time, his mum was all Louis had.

His biological father skipped town when Louis was still only a collection of cells. Jay single-handedly raised Louis all by herself despite being kicked out by her parents for her out-of-wedlock pregnancy. It was just the two of them, Jay and Louis together against the big wide world. Despite not having much, Louis never once felt deprived of anything growing up. He had a roof over his head, food in his belly and shoes on his feet, and it was enough.

Things got a little more complicated when Jay got remarried, falling quickly in love with a banker who moved to town only a few months prior. Then came four beautiful little sisters, whom Louis absolute adores to this day. His step-father is a nice enough bloke; he pays the bills, along with Louis’ education, and he treats his mum and his sisters with the kind of love they deserve. Louis though…

It’s not as if they don’t get along. Let’s just say Louis’ step-father prefers him being in London rather than lounging around the house.

Still, he loves his mum more than anyone in the world. Sometimes a small part of him feels guilty when he complains about how boring his life is, as if to say the life she worked so hard to give to him still wasn’t enough. Despite all her worrying, Louis knows she gets it, though.

“Just be careful, alright?” Jay finally concedes.

“I will, Mum. I will.”

As soon as Louis hangs up, after another six or seven promises and an ‘I love you’, Liam comes barreling into the flat, running down the small hallway, and straight into Louis’ room. As soon as he takes in the state of the room, his excited smile falls momentarily.

“Mate, you’re _still_ packing?” Liam asks him incredulously, eyebrow raised, his long fringe windswept backward from his swift entrance.

Louis groans. “This is hard! I’ve never packed for a trip like this before. The only ever trip I’ve ever been on is that day trip to Blackpool we went on last spring, and that was only one day, not _ten weeks_.” The panic starts to bubble up in him again.

Liam laughs at him, walking further into the room, Louis now noticing the two bags of takeaway in his hand.

_Mm, curry._

Liam kicks over a pile of shirts with his foot and sits down, ignoring Louis’ indignant squeak.

“Oh, like you had any sort of actual system going,” Liam rolls his eyes. “C’mon, let’s eat. I’ll help you pack after.”

Louis accepts his proposal of food and folding skills, opening up his proffered box of tikka masala and stabbing a piece of hot, spicy chicken with a fork.

“Shall we toast?” Liam asks, raising two, freshly opened bottles of beer. Louis takes one and raises it.

“We shall!” Louis shouts dramatically.

“To the adventure of our lifetime?”

Louis nods, the weight of the next few weeks coming down on them. He’s scared shitless and really doesn’t know what to expect, but the more he thinks about it, the more Louis thinks he’s never been more ready for anything in his life. Or, so he thinks.

“To the adventure of our lifetime!”

They clink bottles and take generous swigs to wash down their curry, Louis entirely unaware of the storm he’s willingly walking into.

***

Louis loves London, he does – boredom with the familiarity of the United Kingdom notwithstanding – but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as remarkable in his life as the New York City skyline coming into view through the small round airplane window next to his seat. Well, except for maybe singing, curly-haired twenty-year-olds, but Louis’ just going to ignore that sentiment.

They get off the plane at half-past two in the afternoon, and he and Liam are immediately shepherded off with the rest of the crewmen from the luggage claim out into infamous yellow cabs that will take them to the venue where the tour buses and equipment are waiting for them to eagerly get to work.

Louis hardly has time to have his newest “Dorothy moment”, but that doesn’t stop him from staring out the window with childlike wide eyes as the cab zooms through the busy Manhattan traffic.

“This is fucking aces, Lou,” Liam smiles beside him. All Louis can do is nod dumbly, his focus trained on the tall skyscrapers passing by one by one.

The very first show of Harry’s American tour is at Radio City Music Hall. Harry, not surprisingly with his unfairly good looks and a killer voice to match, has become wildly popular in the States – a hard market for any European artist to crack. When his management first announced he’d be coming to America for the first time, an overwhelming amount of interest provided Harry, not even a full year into his career, opportunities to perform in some of the most famous venues in the country.

It seems only fitting for this dynamite of a boy to start off his first time in the States with a bang.

Despite having just flown five hours over the Atlantic and operating on a cruelly little amount of sleep, the boys are immediately put to work.

And so it begins.

The buses are there – both shiny red and black, fresh off the ferry boat from England – parked outside Radio City. Paul is there, too, wearing almost the same outfit that he wore the last time Louis saw him, clipboard in hand and barking orders.

Louis recognizes a lot of faces from the London show, tossing their personal bags onto the black bus before wheeling equipment through the backstage doors. The one person he doesn’t see is Harry.

It had taken Louis all the way up until boarding started to realize that Harry wasn’t flying with the rest of them. Whether he flew in already or maybe even flying private, Louis didn’t really know, but it had probably been for the best. Louis already had enough adrenaline pumping through him being on airplane for the first time ever, very aware of how high above the ground he was. Having Harry’s stupid pretty face in a flying metal chamber might have sent him into cardiac arrest.

Louis doesn’t entirely remember what he did last time, that night at the Roundhouse will probably forever be a blur, so he sticks close to Liam, rolling in boxes, and carrying around ladders.

From the little he’s seen of it, New York is magical and Radio City is no exception.

The interior, from the grand foyer in the front to the house, is bathed in a warm, golden atmosphere. Every surface, each chair is covered head to toe in brass and rich red velvet – the lights from above creating an orange hue that Louis can only equate to what the surface of the sun must look like. He’s never seen anything like it and Louis does all he can not to halt in his work and stare at everything.

Radio City is much bigger than the Roundhouse, and in turn, much _much_ easier to get lost.

He left Liam and Alberto in the middle of untangling amp wires for a quick trip to the loo, only he can’t bloody find one anywhere. He tries to retrace his steps backstage, but ends up lost in a maze of hallways and staircases leading to nowhere helpful.

Eventually, Louis decides to try and find the lobby, figuring there’s bound to be an easily-marked loo out there. He comes back out into the house and passes Alberto and Liam on the stage, this time heading up the endless rows of seats. Liam laughs at his clear cluelessness, Louis rolling his eyes and flipping him a V over his shoulder.

He pushes open the house doors and starts to head for the grand staircase. He just about reaches the top step when he hears voices coming from down below.

Louis peeks over the banister and sure enough, Harry’s sat with red leather-clad leg crossed one over the other on a barstool at the concession bar. He’s leaning easily on one of his elbows atop the counter, posture casual as he sips gingerly on a clear class filled with an amber liquid.

Louis gulps. He hasn’t seen him since that night, and certainly never in the middle of the afternoon. The fluorescent orange lights suffuse a flushed, sherbet tone over his skin and his billowy white blouse with the top three buttons undone.  He’s laughing at a bloke sat on the barstool next to him dressed in a nicely-tailored suit, a similar drink resting on the countertop beside him. The man’s got a small notebook open on his lap while he holds out what looks like a voice recorder toward Harry.

 _A journo,_ Louis thinks.

“I have to say, Harry,” the man says, “our readers are going to be beside themselves. Thank you for sitting down with me.”

“No, thank _you._ It’s not everyday you get offered the cover story for _Rolling Stone,_ ” Harry smiles brightly, one of his dimples popping out, deep enough to be seen across the distance.

“Not for most people, no. You’re not most people, Harry. You’re a superstar. You and your team can expect our photographer to come out and meet you once get to California. We’re thinking Malibu for the photoshoot.”

Louis doesn’t know why he just stands there. He doesn’t know why he can’t walk down the stairs toward the loo and carry on with his business, but he doesn’t. He leans against the banister, listening in instead, his bladder be damned.

“Speaking of superstars,” the man continues, “what do you say to those calling you the next Bowie? A younger, fresher Mick Jagger?”

Harry laughs, smiling into his glass, a hint of modesty almost mixed in the sound. “I don’t mind being compared to any of them at all, Mr. Barns. They’re my idols. Legends.” Harry puts his glass down and straightens his posture. His speech is slow and deep, even more so from his drink most likely, but he speaks clearly into the recorder. “The thing is though, I’m not the next Bowie. Or Mick, or Elton. I’m not the next anybody, and I’m certainly not _another_ anybody. I’m Harry fucking Styles and if you come to my shows, you’ll see the difference.”

Louis feels hot all over from Harry’s words, the conviction he held in them. He’s right – since he was discovered, Harry has been compared to the flair and flamboyant genius of some of the most prominent names in rock and roll to come out of England. Louis can understand the comparison – anyone can stand on a stage in a sparkled suit and call it entertainment.

But Harry is absolutely right. He’s only seen Harry perform the one time, but in Louis’ opinion, all those other artists really don’t hold a candle to him.

And dear God, does Louis find his confidence sexy.

“From the research I’ve done, your fans feel a real personal connection to you. There’s a sense that you belong to them and they belong to you in return. What do you think it is about you and your music that generates such a reaction, especially with rock and roll often living in a world heightened reality?” Barns asks.

Harry pauses to think for a moment, his thumb and forefinger playing with his bottom lip, before he shrugs his shoulders. “I’m for the boys and the girls who know they’re going to grow up weird. I’d like to think my fans feel safety in that.” He leans forward, speaking directly into the recorder again. “Don’t worry about it, kids. We’re all freaks up here.”

Louis feels himself smiling.

_You’re really something else, aren’t you Harry Styles?_

Suddenly, the house doors open again, Liam calling out, “Lou?”

Louis curses internally, Liam’s voice loud enough that both Harry and Barns turn their heads upward. Harry’s eyes immediately lock with Louis’ shocked ones.

“You okay, Lou? You’ve been gone a while?” Liam approaches him, concerned.

“Erm, yeah. Sorry, I just got lost…” Louis says dumbly as he tears his gaze away from Harry, mortified at his now very obvious eavesdropping. He’d head back to work right away and try his best to forget that ever happened, but Louis still has to fucking pee. “I’ll be back in just a mo, I promise.”

Louis races down the stairs, walking swiftly past the bar area toward the toilets, not daring to look anywhere other than ahead. He can feel a pair of eyes drilling into the back of his head and he’d bet anything it isn’t Mr. Barns from _Rolling Stone Magazine_.

***

After the show, after the buses are packed up and the fans have long gone home to squeal some more to their parents and write in their journals about how fit Harry Styles is and _why does he have to live in England,_ Louis finds himself in a club of all places in the heart of Manhattan.

He’s dead tired and his feet are throbbing, but he’s pissed as all hell and he’s having a fucking blast.

Almost everyone came out to celebrate the start of Harry’s American takeover, including Paul, though he served more as security detail than anything else. Louis lost sight of Harry and his bandmates the second they were let into the swanky club and through sleek velvet ropes, skipping the long line outside. But it didn’t matter too much really, because Louis was in fucking _New York City_ and not sitting by himself on his couch in London  bored out of his wits.

He and Liam, along with a few other guys from the crew around their age, dance for hours under the club’s neon blue lights, getting spectacularly wasted.

It isn’t until they’re stumbling their way back onto the buses around three in the morning that Louis sees Harry again, laughing loudly into the still-awake NYC night with two girls hanging on each of his arms. He guides the girls onto the red bus and shuts the door behind them with a giggle and a firm slam.

There’s something that catches Louis’ eye though, something he hadn’t noticed before.

Hanging outside the door of the red bus is a dark blue, maybe black sign with painted white letters that reads:

_Only the Moon and Her Lovers._

Too drunk to even try to understand what that might mean, Louis climbs into the black bus and doesn’t even change out of his clothes before falling into the bunk underneath an already-snoring Liam, already embracing the killer hangover he’s bound to welcome come morning.

***

Louis very quickly decides that he loves being on the road. Working the London show, then immediately having to set up for the concert in New York, there hadn’t been much time to properly get acquainted with everyone on the team and while out clubbing, Louis had definitely been too drunk to remember anyone’s name.

Come morning, though, Louis and Liam found nursing their hangover with tea and greasy gas station food to be a perfect bonding experience with some of their bunk mates. Two of the crewmen in particular – a tall skinny lad and junior sound technician from Lewisham named Greg, and an aspiring bassist studying at King’s College named Sandy – were around the same age as Louis and Liam and they got on swimmingly.

Louis thought being cooped up in a tiny bus with a bunch of men for hours on end wouldn’t be all that appealing, but he was surprisingly wrong. One of his favorite ways to pass the time he’s found, is to curl up on one of the couches and stare out the window, watching the scenery pass by, not wanting to miss an inch of land he’s never laid eyes on before. America is much different than England is, with its mountains and rich green forests. Louis’ fascinated by its beauty.

They aren’t always confined to the bus, of course. Every so often, when the buses stop for fuel or a meal, Louis, Liam and the other lads will get out and stretch their legs, sometimes even fitting in a quick game of footie with the ball that Greg brought along with him.

Now that the tour’s really kicked off, Louis hardly ever comes across Harry again.

He’ll see flashy glimpses of him – backstage running to places, chatting with his bandmates, or often with a random girl. There seems to be a revolving door of them and Louis doesn’t know what trap door they keep coming from.

One night, however, in Philadelphia while Louis is unpacking boxes of lights, he sees Harry lurking in one of the dark corners of the Tower Theater, half-dressed in purple striped trousers and no shoes, chugging down a bottle of alcohol a little over an hour before show time.

For the first two weeks, Louis only ever sees Harry from a distance when he’s high, drunk, hungover, or a combination of all three. Despite all the times Louis notices him, Harry certainly never notices Louis.

The twenty-year-old’s got certain things that demand his attention; things that often come in glass bottles.

***

They’re in Washington D.C. when it finally happens.

The first time Louis really meets Harry Styles, he’s naked. Well, nearly naked – a trend apparently.

Once the crew pulls up to the venue and stars hauling equipment from the buses inside, the chaos begins. Liam and Louis spring into action as well, helping Alberto transport the different spotlights and corresponding cables. They’re all locked up safely in large black boxes, the heavier ones needing to be pushed inside by cart.

Everything gets dragged off the bus and Liam and Alberto start actually setting up the lights, which is always the part where Louis has to find Paul and ask for something else to do. He doesn’t know exactly how much, but Louis knows those lights are too fucking expensive for him to be messing around with.

It takes a couple of minutes to track Paul down, since the man is quite literally everywhere and nowhere at the same time before a show, but as soon as he does Paul shoves a large rectangular box into Louis’ hands. It quite a beautiful looking box, actually – sort of a dark purple colour with a hand-painted gold, swirly design all over it. It’s surprisingly heavy and when Louis adjusts the box in his arms to account for the unexpected weight, something inside shifts around, clanging against something else.

“Is this a box of rocks?” Louis asks the tour manager, incredulously confused.

Paul rolls his eyes, but is too busy to really respond. He instructs Louis as he’s stalking away in the opposite direction to take the box to the dressing room – _Harry’s_ dressing room.

Louis gulps at the mere idea of it. He tries to calm himself down, rationalizing that Harry probably isn’t even in there yet. There’s still a few more hours left till showtime, the sun still very much high in the sky, and if Louis’ learned one thing in the single week he’s been on tour so far it’s that Harry spends more time on that red bus than anybody else. Most of the time Louis overhears chatter of _this_ person and _that_ person having to drag the singer inside to get ready for the show, almost always shooing off another one of Styles’ guests in the process.

No, Louis thinks to himself, Harry’s most definitely still out in the lot, locked inside that sacred red bus of his, with that _sign_ taped outside the door. He shouldn’t have a problem slipping in and out of the dressing room, quickly depositing the mystery box of rocks, and finding another job to do.

Louis sets off on his mission to find the dressing room, his only set of direction from Paul being a distant, “…one of them rooms at the end of the hallway upstairs. Second floor.”

Upon reaching the floor in question, a challenge presents itself in the form of two different, yet identical looking corridors, one going left and the other, right. Louis scoffs, exasperated, his arms growing a little tired from the box in his arms.

“Thanks for the help, Paul. Real specific,” Louis mutters to himself.

He chooses the left one at random and finds two unmarked doors. He opens them one at a time, each room completely empty which, while annoying, narrows down his search.

He turns on his heel, heading back in the direction toward the hallway on the right, and pauses, now hearing faint strains of music coming from the end of the corridor. The closer he gets, the clearer the noise becomes.

Suddenly Louis gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, and sure enough, walking down the corridor there’s only one room at the end of the hall – a white doorway with a midnight blue and white sign hung from it.

_Only the Moon and Her Lovers._

If Louis were smart, he wouldn’t even fucking think of walking through that door. He’d knock, set the box on the floor outside, and quickly find Paul before being seen. But then again, Louis isn’t in uni to make use of his brain.

His fingers itch to grab hold of the doorknob, inch open the door and hear the music. He gives in to his curiosity in the end. He sets the box gently on the ground just outside the door and turns the knob.

Walking into the room, the first thing Louis lays his eyes on is six feet of creamy skin and tattoos standing on top of a coffee table situated in the middle of the room. With a mixture of dread and exhilaration, Louis knows now that he was very wrong – Harry’s definitely not still on the bus.

His breath catches. The only thing separating the rockstar and a practically indecent pair of pink lacy pants from Louis’ retinas, is the thin layer of a black and rose silk dressing gown, slipping invitingly down one of his shoulders. He’s also got a tambourine, playing along and singing gleefully to the _Norwegian Wood_ record spinning somewhere else in the room.

Louis freezes in place. He’s walked in on a scene so unlike the last time. He’s much closer in distance, the dressing room comfortable yet on the smaller size. There isn’t some girl attached to his neck or hips, sucking on him like leeches.

Also, for the first time, Harry looks sober.

His eyes appear clearer, his smile genuine. His skin looks brighter, and while he’s still got long, Bambi-like limbs, the boy looks in control of his movements as he beats the tambourine against his palm.

He looks beautiful like this, Louis thinks to himself. A real person.

Clearly, Louis hasn’t learned his lesson since their last close encounter, however, as he continues to stand in the doorway, mesmerized by Harry’s every movement. His eyes follow the rockstar as he twirls in his own little world atop his perch, eyes closed, almost looking drunk off the effects of the sitar rather than alcohol.

And then, something magical happens.

The singer spins to face Louis by the door at the same time he finally opens his eyes. Louis hold his breath, knowing he’s caught. This is the second time he’s walked in on Harry in a, er, _private_ manner. If it weren’t for the fact that Louis wouldn’t be here at all if Harry hadn’t _asked_ him to be, he wouldn’t be surprised if Harry thought he’s got some sort of stalker.

Apology quick on his tongue, Louis opens his mouth to speak, but stops because…

Harry smiles at him.

A wide grin slowly stretches across the boy’s face, as if Louis is _just_ the person he wants to see in that very moment and not a practical stranger. Unfazed by his presence, he stares directly into Louis’ eyes all the way across the room, as he sings, _“And when I awoke, I was alone, this bird had flown. So I lit a fire, isn’t it good? Norwegian wood_.”

 _My God,_ Louis thinks to himself. _His dimples._

The song begins to fade away, but Harry keeps his gaze right where it is on Louis. He opens his mouth, his voice low, deep and slow like syrup. He’s still smiling.

“Hey there, Blue Eyes.”

_Jesus fucking Christ..._

“Hey, mate. Can I help you?”

Louis jumps back a little at a voice that definitely did _not_ come from Harry’s mouth. He looks away from the grinning singer and finally takes in the rest of the room. There’s a black baby grand in the corner, the walls decked out in colourful rugs and tapestries. On an orange velvet couch next to where the turntable stands - now playing _You Won’t See Me_ softly - is another man with a guitar in his lap, looking at Louis with an amused expression.

“Oh, erm...hello,” Louis croaks out.

The man laughs, standing up from the sofa. He places the guitar on a stand as he makes his way over to Louis, wiping off his hands on his jeans before extending out his hand.

“Niall Horan.”

 _Irish,_ Louis notes. _Definitely Irish._

Louis hesitates before taking Niall’s hand in his own for a firm shake. “I’m Louis.”

“Lou-ie” Harry drawls from behind them. Louis looks over Niall’s shoulder at the boy, still on his perch, eying him up and down curiously. A shiver cascades down his spine at the deep, gruff notes of his voice, the way his lips form over the word as he sounds out his name.

“Yeah,” Louis laughs dumbly. “That’s me.”

“Well, Lou-ie. You lost or something?” Niall asks him, not unkindly, bringing Louis’ attention back onto him.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” Louis says, remembering the actual reason he’s here. He pats his pockets until he finds his crew pass, pulling out and giving it a little wave. “Was sent here on a work mission. Not here to scream or steal anyone’s knickers, I swear.” Louis internally cringes as soon as he says it, Harry raising his eyebrow with an amused expression.

Niall cackles loudly, his brown, Elvis-like quiff bouncing up and down. “I wasn’t worried about that. You’re not the type we usually deal with.”

“Right,” Louis laughs along nervously, eager to change the subject. “Paul asked me to bring this.” He lifts up the box again from where he set it down.

As soon as Harry catches sight of the thing, he jumps down off from the table, stumbling on the landing only just for a moment before racing toward Louis with grabby hands.

“Brilliant!” He exclaims, ripping the box straight out of Louis’ hands, whatever it holds inside clanking loudly, Harry clearly familiar enough with it to be less gentle that Louis had been. “Fantastic, darling!”

Before Louis can even react, Harry’s face surges forward toward his and back out again just as quick, like a snake taking a jab at its victim – only instead of a bite, Harry pecks the tip of Louis’ nose.

Harry smirks cheekily before turning around with the box, Louis’ mouth and eyes open wide in surprise, perfectly circular. He eyes dart sideways to Niall, partly seeking some sort of explanation, and partly to gauge whether or not his reaction set off any unwanted bells.

Niall rolls his eyes fondly, looking briefly behind them as Harry places the box down onto the coffee table he was standing on only moments ago, clearly eager to take out whatever’s inside.

“Don’t mind him. That’s his, _thank you._ ” Niall explains, clearly used to Harry’s brand of behaviour.

“I see.”

Louis returns his attention to Harry, who is pulling out an assortment of brightly coloured candles, smelling each one and smiling to himself before lining them up one by one.

Niall moves to one of the side tables next to the couch and picks up a set of keys. “Hazza, I got to make a call to the label and talk to them about recording details. I’ll be back before the show.”

Harry gives him a wave goodbye, but doesn’t look up from his candle sorting. Niall heads toward the doorway and gives Louis a clap on the shoulder.

“Nice to meet you, mate. I’m still getting to know some of the crew since I’ve been in Dublin on business. Flew back in this morning, ‘cause this one can’t go too long without me before he starts gettin’ into trouble,” Niall jokes playfully, pointing his thumb back to Harry, though Louis picks up on a hint of truth hidden underneath it. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, mate. Take it easy,” Louis replies, watching as Niall finally leaves, passing by him through the open door where Louis still stands.

For an awkward moment, Louis stares at Harry, unsure what to do now. He’s done his job, he’s delivered the box and should probably head back and find Paul, but he also really doesn’t want to.

He starts to turn around to take his own exit, feeling awkward enough that he hopes he can slip out without Harry noticing.

Louis only has one foot out the door when Harry shouts out, “Wait!”

Louis freezes a moment before pivoting around to face the rock star once more. He’s sitting down now, legs crossed underneath his bum as he rests his elbows on the coffee table in front of him, candles lined up in different shapes in sizes in unique little battalions.

“Erm, yeah?” Louis asks slowly, unsure. Harry’s eyes are round and clear, lips in a small pout.

“Stay, please.” Its not really a question, more like a request and Louis’ definitely confused. It’s nearly a week on into tour and this boy – who _demanded_ Louis come along despite Louis’ conclusion that that probably never really happened – has not said a word to him, or even given him a moment’s glance when in the same room. Now he wants Louis to stay in his dressing room? And do what – help him decorate with candles?

Louis starts to think about other things two people could do in an empty room together with a couch and candles and some music in the background and…

_Shut up, Louis. Shut up._

“I – I actually have to get back to work. Paul probably only expected me to be gone for a couple minutes and –“

“Cinnamon or vanilla?”

Louis raises and eyebrow, “Pardon?”

Harry grins, thrusting out two candles held in each hand, one white and one red. The sleeves of his silk dressing gown slide down his forearms, revealing toned and tattooed muscles.

“I can’t decide which one to light. They’re both just the kind of mood I want to be in for the show tonight and it’s simply too hard of a decision for me to make on my own,” Harry explains, nothing in his demeanor giving away that he’s being anything other than dead serious.

For some reason, it makes Louis laugh.

He’s knows shit all about things like this, but suddenly Louis realizes how easy it is to want to indulge Harry.

He’s about to give him an answer, but Harry’s up on his feet, bare legs rushing over straight to him.

“How silly of me! How are you meant to make a decision when I haven’t let you smell them,” Harry says, scolding himself. Louis leans back as two glass jars are suddenly thrust out in front of his face.

Louis chuckles, “I suppose that’d make things a bit difficult.” Then he makes the mistake of looking up from the candles underneath his nose.

Harry is standing close. He’s much taller than he looks in photographs and he has to angle his face down slightly to look at Louis.

For a moment, and yes, it feels a bit pathetic at this point, Louis forgets to breathe properly. It dawns on him that he’s never been this close to Harry before, let alone been left completely alone with him.

From here, he can see every detail of the boy’s face – from the barely-there stubble above his lip to the small acne spots on his chin, no doubt the result of all the stage makeup he wears every night.

_He’s also only twenty. Still so young._

This close, he _looks_ young. He looks bright, features defined like a man, but his eyes still hold a childlike playfulness in them.

Sage – the green shade of his eyes that Louis could never quite decipher from far away. His eyes are a soft sage. They’re beautiful.

“Louis?” Harry prompts quietly, lips quirked in a small smirk.

The simple sound of Harry saying his name sends a shiver down his spine. The boy stares down at him with round, expectant eyes, not unlike a big curly puppy.

“Oh, erm, right,” Louis laughs, embarrassed, desperately willing away the fresh flush of his cheeks. Louis leans forward to the candle in Harry’s left hand, giving it a sniff – the vanilla one he discovers. He quite likes that one.

A thought flashes briefly in Louis’ mind at how weird this is and it makes him want to laugh at the ridiculousness – him, inside Harry Styles’ dressing room, with Harry Styles, _sniffing his candles._ Just a few weeks ago, past Louis couldn’t have dreamt this up even if he tried.

He moves onto the cinnamon one in Harry’s right hand. That one’s actually quite nice, too. Warm and a bit spicy. Both scents seem quite fitting for the boy.

Louis stands up straight again and Harry brings the candles back close to his chest.

“Well?” Harry asks, impatient as a small child demanding a compliment.

“They’re both quite nice,” Louis says, rubbing at the stubble along his chin. “Why not both?”

“Both?” Harry asks incredulously, as if lighting two candles at once was something he’s never once thought of before.

“Yeah, why not?” Louis shrugs his shoulders. “Like cinnamon sugar. Like – like those Spanish pastry things you get at the fair. Churros?”

Louis doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, and by the confused furrow of Harry’s brow, he doesn’t either.

“Have you ever had one of those before?” Louis asks, because, of course, why not say more words that will make him inevitably cringe in the middle of the night by himself when he’s repeating this whole conversation in his head.

“No, I don’t think I have,” Harry shakes his head, but instead of questioning why Louis’ such a loser, asking him about foreign desserts, his whole face transforms into a great big grin. “Are they good?”

Louis finds himself smiling back. “They’re delicious.”

Louis sees all of Harry’s teeth he smiles so big, dimples becoming right craters.

“Both, then. A brilliant decision by Louis…”

“Tomlinson,” Louis supplies.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry repeats, his slow drawl emphasizing every syllable.

Louis coughs into his fist, breaking their eye contact for his own sanity, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Come in, Louis Tomlinson. What’re you standing by the door for? Come in, relax.” Harry turns around on his heels, calling over his shoulder as he returns to his set up on the coffee table.

Still a bit unsure, Louis follows Harry, feet moving further into the dressing room. He looks around the room again, taking in all the things he hadn’t noticed before, like the bright red shag rug and the multicoloured glass jars of glitter nestled by the vanity.

“This is a nice set up you’ve got here,” Louis compliments, “You do this at every venue?”

Harry lights up at the question. “Oh, yes! I really like to feel at home on the road.” He reaches further into the purple and gold box and extracts a set of matches, setting one ablaze and lighting the cinnamon and vanilla candles. “Sit. You look uncomfortable standing.”

Louis laughs at the truth behind that statement, only partially mortified at his obviousness. He sits down in front of the coffee table opposite Harry, whose face is only just visible over the waxed centerpieces. The space already smells quite lovely, actually. Churro-esque.

Louis is wildly attracted to this man. That’s been very obvious from the beginning and it is still very, very much a problem. However, it wasn’t unexpected. Louis anticipated this the minute he got that first panicked phone call from Liam.

What he didn’t expect was how… _weird_ Harry is. How, being in the same room as him, observing him calm and lucid, away from all the lights and the guitars and the flashy outfits, how _unlike_ Harry Styles he seems to be. Or rather, how unlike the Harry Styles Louis has read about.

He’s a bit of an odd nut, isn’t he? In the twentyish minutes Louis’ spent with him, he’s been nothing short of a six-foot child with a candle fetish, bunny-rabbit teeth and kind eyes. Also, he’s never eaten a churro before.

“I’m so glad Niall’s finally found the time to join us,” Harry says, fishing around once more inside the purple box of goodies. “I’m always telling him to quit being my manager for two seconds and spend time with me.”

“You’re mates with your manager?” Louis asks. He thinks back to the jolly brunette Irishman, jamming on his guitar along with Harry’s tambourine.

“Best mates,” Harry corrects. His eyes light up hungrily when he finally pulls out what he’s looking for – another box, this one much smaller, made out of a dark, smooth wood. It has a delicate gold latch holding it closed, with four, curved wooden legs. Harry drops it down onto the table and all but rips the latch off opening it, emptying the box’s contents.

 _Oh_.

Well, Louis really shouldn’t be surprised.

Harry pours the white powder right onto the table, a cloud of smoke wafting in the air above. Louis has to lean back in order to not accidentally breathe any of it in.

_Right. Now’s probably the moment to leave._

Louis stands back on his feet as Harry begins cutting thin little parallel lines of white powder – four, five, six, in a row – with a shiny gold credit card. Harry looks up at him, face falling.

“Where are you going?”

“I – I got to get back to work, Harry. I’ll, erm, I’ll leave you to it.”

Louis wants to throw it all in the bin, actually. He wants to tell him he needs to stop, that that shit’s bad for him. It’s not really his place, though, is it? Who the hell is he to tell Harry Styles what he can and cannot do?

“No, don’t go!” Harry pleas, “Don’t worry, I’ve got enough to share.” He pats the seat next to him on the floor, eyes pleading for him to stay.

Louis’ not enough of an idiot to believe it’s _him_ he wants. He wants a drug buddy, that’s it. And that’s something Louis isn’t willing to be, even if it would mean being the center of Harry’s attention. How could he be, when he can see the itch in Harry’s eyes to look away from him and have the cocaine take control.

“Really, Harry. Paul’s probably going to have my head if I – I’ve just got to go,” Louis stammers, looking away so he doesn’t catch the way Harry’s face falls at his refusal. “Have a good show.”

He gives Harry a quick, small smile in apology, hoping it’ll give the boy some sort of relief.  Harry just stares at him, credit card dangling between his fingers – the flames of the candles flickering in the reflection of his eyes.

When Harry doesn’t say anything else, his face painted with an unreadable expression, Louis turns around and finally leaves the dressing room.

He gently closes the door and wonders what the fuck just happened. As he heads back to the loading stations, a heavy weight forms in his stomach, unable to stop thinking about what he knows Harry must be doing in his dressing room all alone.

It didn’t sit right with him and he really has no clue what to do about it.

One thing he knows for sure is that despite all the things he’s read about Harry in the papers and the press, Louis doesn’t know a goddamn thing about him – about why he likes to collect candles, or why he’s never eaten a churro before. Or about why this was the first time Louis’ ever seen Harry sober and it only lasted thirty minutes.

He isn’t able to shake the unsettled feeling in his gut for the rest of the night.

***

After that first real interaction with Harry, it’s back to radio silence, as if the whole thing had been a figment of Louis’ imagination.

It’s after the show in Chicago that everything starts to change.

Harry was on fire tonight – the crowd losing their actual minds in the stands. The stimulating adrenaline, coupled with the fact that they’ve finally made it to a city large enough to have actual skyscrapers after days of seeing nothing but fields and smelling nothing but cow shit, meant that Harry insisted on finding a club to release his remaining energy.

So really, the night is obviously bound for disaster.

There’s apparently a club not too far from the venue, and the security teams form a perimeter around Harry as the group of them make their way down the busy Chicago downtown streets.

Just behind Harry are Mitch, Sarah, Clare and Adam, laughing and keeping to themselves as they normally do. Louis, Liam, Greg, Sandy and some of the other lads follow not far behind – close enough that they’re still a part of Harry’s immediate entourage, but still quite obviously separate. Besides, they aren’t the ones in need of security escorts.

Upon walking up to the club’s entrance, girls in short dresses waiting in line begin shrieking at the top of their lungs at the sight of Harry. Suave as ever, Harry flashes them a wink and a dimpled grin. He lifts a hand to one of his guards, ordering them to halt. He eyes the girls up and down.

“Evening, ladies. You’re all looking wonderful,” Harry compliments. He points to a brunette in a shiny silver dress and pulls her out of line. “She’s with me,” he says to the bouncer over his shoulder as they walk inside.

Louis can’t help but roll his eyes. It’s not _jealousy_ exactly, so much as it’s…

No, it’s jealousy. There’s no point in lying to himself. Louis can’t help the tight twinge in his chest every time he sees another groupie fall all over Harry and he absolutely hates it. He hates it because it’s ridiculous and it’s selfish and Louis has no right or claim to him whatsoever. All he can do is look the other way and make an effort not to let himself think too much about it. Which is fantastically easy to do on nights when they go out thanks to a lovely man named Jack Daniels.

It’s hot inside this club – Louis can feel the sweat forming along his hairline nearly the second he and the boys follow Harry inside. It’s also huge, with a large dance floor and stage area on the main level. In the far left corner from the entrance is a spiral staircase leading to a second level and in the far right corner, another staircase leading to balcony area overlooking the stage, filled with what looks like VIP seating.

Like always, Harry, along with his lady and bandmates, disperse and Louis heads straight for the bar.

Louis doesn’t lose sight of Harry right away though, like he assumes he would. While waiting for their first round of drinks, he watches as Harry and the girl in the silver dress dance in the middle of the crowd.

He didn’t see Harry get a drink first, but Louis wouldn’t be surprised if the singer had started the party before they even arrived. He doesn’t seem too out of control yet – he’s still got most of his motor skills, dancing wildly with her. Though he doesn’t have to be too fucked up to be lacking any sort of grace, Louis’ come to notice. Those goddamn Bambi limbs.

Harry’s got his hands tightly wrapped around the girl’s waist. He tilts his head back to give her more access to kiss his neck. After a moment, Harry leans his head back down to whisper something in her ear. She giggles, nodding her head up and down before Harry grabs her hand and whisks her out of sight.

Louis can think of a number of things they’ve left to go do, and they each annoy him infinitely.

“Lou, mate!” Liam shouts over the music, “Cheers!”

Liam hands him a shot, which Louis readily accepts. The four boys clink glasses before tipping them back, letting the burning liquid ease down their throats.

After three, maybe four or five shots, Louis and the lads dance under the bright blue and green flashing lights that beam down on the dance floor. Louis’ surrounded by bodies but he doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and lets himself go. The music and the rhythm of the bass guitar take control of his muscles, deciding which way he moves. The alcohol goes straight to his head and he feels instantly looser – gone is the dull ache in his lower back from heavy lifting, gone are the intrusive thoughts of pretty, mysterious boys. He just keeps dancing, the rest of the world quickly fading away.

Louis doesn’t know if it’s been minutes or if it’s been hours, but he feels something tug at his arm, pulling him back into his head.

“Louis!”

He opens his eyes to find Sarah, Harry’s drummer, staring back at him with wide eyes. Beside her is the guitarist, Mitch, wearing an equally concerned look on his face.

Louis blinks at them in confusion. In the nearly three weeks that they’ve been on tour, Louis doesn’t think he’s ever spoken to anyone in Harry’s band. They seem nice enough and they are all bloody talented, but they’re completely unapproachable if Louis’ being honest. They only ever talk to themselves or to Harry, always off rehearsing in their own corner or out exploring separately from the rest of the group. He didn’t even know that Sarah could recognize him on the street, let alone know his name.

“Have you seen Harry?”

Louis furrows his brow. “What?”

“Harry,” Sarah repeats, “We can’t find him. Have you seen him?”

Louis can sense Liam and the others clueing in, halting their own dancing to pay attention to Sarah.

“N-no? Not for a while…” The last time Louis saw him was leaving the dance floor with that girl. He doesn’t even how long it’s been since then. “What do you mean you can’t find him?”

“I _mean_ we can’t find him. We’ve checked everywhere. He’s gone.” Sarah raises her voice in stress. Mitch puts a calming hand on her shoulder.

Louis shakes his head. “Where’s Paul? Shouldn’t he be with him?”

Sarah huffs. “Some idiot girls apparently tried to sneak onto the bus thinking Harry was on it and Paul left to go deal with it. Adam was _supposed_ to be watching him, but he got sick in the loo and when he came back out Harry had disappeared.”

This wasn’t good. This was _so_ not good.

It’s one thing to have your mate go missing when he’s fucked out of his mind, which, this late in the night Harry no doubt has reached that point. It’s a whole other thing to have that mate be one of the most famous rockstars in the country.

“Shit, erm…” Louis feels himself start to sober immediately, but he also doesn’t know what do to do. He turns to his right to find Liam staring down at him. All it takes is one desperate look to his best mate and Liam just nods.

“We’ll help you look for him,” Liam tells her. “I doubt he’s gotten far if he’s not still here.”

Honestly, bless Liam for always knowing what to do.

“Greg and I can go and look around outside?” Sandy suggests.

“Yes, thank you,” Sarah sighs in relief. Louis expects that to be it, turning to leave, when Sarah stops him specifically, looking him dead in the eye. “Find him, Louis. Please.”

Louis just blinks at her, utterly confused. They all agreed to help find him. Why is she singling him out? A brief thought of anxiety pulses through him, wondering if she can see right through him.

Louis pushes the thought away, though. It’s definitely not the time to be worrying about that. Instead, Louis nods. “I’ll let you know if we do.”

“Thank you,” Sarah says, satisfied with his answer, then she and Mitch stalk off in another direction.

“C’mon, Lou,” Liam nods toward the staircases. “Let’s check upstairs.”

Louis and Liam weave through the throng of bodies, eventually reaching the base of the first staircase leading to the balconies. After a thorough search behind chairs and under tables, they retreat back down the steps to head over to the spiral staircase.

While the panic of a missing Harry gave him a surge of awakening adrenaline, the alcohol in Louis’ system still made the dizzying trek up the spiraling steps a bit difficult, keeping a firm grip on the handrail.

The second floor of the club is much darker than the main floor, the brightness of the spotlights replaced with dully-lit chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. There’s a large open space with a posh-looking sectional sofa, several partygoers lounging about and drinking cocktails on it.

There are also about a dozen private rooms lining the wall, some with doors wide open and others firmly shut.

“You start checking rooms on one end, and I’ll do the other,” Liam suggests. Louis nods and peeks his head into the first door on his right. It’s empty, save for a shiny silver pole and six or seven bottles of champagne chilling on ice.

Louis runs an anxious hand through his greasy hair and exhales, moving on to the next door.

People in the room begin to give him and Liam odd looks as they rip open door after door. After getting yelled at several times for bursting in on what appeared to be two escort appointments and a group cutting up an excessive amount of cocaine lines, Louis starts to get the sinking feeling that Harry isn’t in the building at all anymore.

Louis’ just about to say as much, call over to Liam and suggest they help Greg and Sandy outside, when he hears it, a shrill giggle coming from behind the closed door of the next room to Louis’ left.

“ _C’’mon, Harry…”_

Louis doesn’t even hesitate before barging in, at the moment not caring about what he might see. It’s not some drug and alcohol induced orgy like he might have expected, but it’s almost worse. He finds Harry slumped back on a sleek, maroon velvet couch, his head lolling back onto the headrest. He’s got not one but _three_ groupies hanging all over him – touching him, grabbing him, pulling at his clothes like he’s a piece of meat and they’re at a buffet.

Then there’s Harry, completely fucked out of his mind, unaware that he’s become a human ragdoll.

Louis doesn’t know what comes over him, but a sudden rage turns his whole body hot.

“Harry,” he calls, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s time for bed.”

Unsurprisingly, Harry doesn’t move an inch, nor does he give any indication that he hears him. Instead, Louis gets three equally icy, judgmental looks.

“You’re not his babysitter,” one of them laughs, combing her manicured fingers into Harry’s knotted hair.

“Yeah, let him have some fun,” says another, this one’s hair as fiery red as the anger now fully bloomed inside of Louis.

Louis ignores them, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying something he knows he’ll regret.

He steps further into the room, reaching to grab Harry’s hands and maybe get him walking, but is stopped by the third girl, the brunette who’d been dancing with him before, as she snakes a possessive hand around Harry’s barely-moving chest.

“Look,” Louis snarls at her, tired, still a little tipsy, and certainly not in the mood for whatever phantom claim she has over him. “If you don’t let me take him back, he can’t perform again tomorrow night. Do you understand? Back off.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but does as she’s told, leaning back away from him.

Louis ignores all his mother’s lessons about being a gentleman and nudges himself in between her and Harry, forcing her to scoff and scoot over.

Louis gently grabs hold of Harry’s chin, assessing the clear damage of the night. He’s pale, paler than he usually is with his normal boyish flush now absent. His makeup is smeared and there’s the telltale white residue still dusted around his left nostril. His eyes are what give Louis a chill down his spine – they’re lifeless, rolling into the back of his head.

“Fuck,” Louis curses to himself. He turns around, barking sharply at the three girls still in the room. “What the fuck did he take?”

“Some coke. Some Quaaludes,” the red-head shrugs in a bored tone, reaching for an opened bottle of champagne and taking a drink from it.

“Jesus Christ,” Louis mumbles under his breath.

“Chill,” says the brunette, “Don’t have a cow, man.”

For a moment, Louis blinks at her in disbelief at her disgusting nonchalance. “Right, this party is over.” Louis wraps one of Harry’s arms around his shoulder, using his other arm to support his waist. “Liam!”

Liam pops into the room, eyes widening as he gets a good look at the state of Harry and the tiny room.

“Help me get him out of here?” Louis huffs under Harry’s full body weight leaning against him.

Liam rushes to help him, draping Harry’s other arm around his own shoulders, he and Louis working together to bring Harry to his feet. The singer starts to sink once he’s vertical and Liam moves quickly to help Louis support his waist, all but carrying him, hoisted up between the two of them.

Louis doesn’t give the girls a second glance before leaving the room. Somehow, they get Harry down the spiral staircase in one piece, slung over Liam’s shoulder while Louis yells at anyone who gets in their way.

They’re just about to reach the entrance when Louis stops them.

“We can’t bring him out like this. There’s still so many fans out there.”

Wouldn’t that be a lovely thing for Harry to wake up and see in the morning paper? _Rockstar Brit, Harry Styles, carried out after a wild night on the town while being chased after by fans._

Liam thinks for a moment, before marching over to one of the security guards stood by the entrance.

“Is there a back entrance that we can take him out? He’ll cause a riot,” Liam asks.

The security guard looks Harry up and down where he’s slumped between Liam and Louis, scowling for a moment until the recognition dawns on him. He nods his head, his voice low and gruff. “Follow me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Liam says with a grateful smile and he and Louis drag Harry back through the crowd, following the man’s lead through a hallway behind the bar.

He opens a heavy black door that takes them to the alley behind the club, empty of screaming fans or stalking photographers.

“Thank you again,” Liam repeats and Louis nods his head in thanks as well. He’s much more focused on Harry than remembering to be polite.

“He’s _is_ still breathing, which is good…” Louis assesses. It’s shallow, though, Harry’s nose letting out the softest of wheezes each time he exhales.

They decide the quickest way to get him back to the buses is by Liam carrying him over his shoulder again. Louis silently grumbles about not having the muscles to do it himself, but he knows it’s not the time nor the place to be complaining about being too petite for his own liking.

Louis guides the way, periodically stopping someone for directions back to the venue where the buses are parked. Despite the odd looks they receive as they pass by on the street, thankfully no one seems to recognize Harry, his face being well hidden by his hair.

“Finally,” Louis breathes, the shiny bright red of Harry’s bus coming into view around the corner. The situation with the attempted bus break-in must have been resolved, as no one else lingers around outside.

Louis pauses outside the door with his grip on the handle, staring right into that midnight blue sign.

_Only the Moon and Her Lovers._

So many times has he seen Harry hole himself up inside of these shiny metal walls and so many times has he wondered about what it’s like inside. And here he is now, about to finally cross that threshold.

“Lou? You alright?”

Louis shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry…”

Louis moves to pull the door handle, and – it’s locked.

“Right,” Louis laughs. “Someone _just_ tried to break in, of course it’s locked.”

“He should have a key on him, shouldn’t he? He’s always sneaking on and off, he’s bound to have one,” Liam says. “Check his pockets.”

And, well. Louis looks at the sinfully tight, black leather trousers that Harry’s wearing and…

_Jesus fucking Christ. God, help me._

Louis takes a deep breath and sends up a silent prayer as loudly as he can in his head that Liam can’t see the flush that consumes his features in the dark of the night.

Louis dips his hand into the first pocket, desperately not willing to think about how amazing the swell of Harry’s bum feels against his fingers. He finds nothing there, moving on quickly to the other pocket, where thankfully, Louis feels a piece of cool metal.

He extracts his hand quicker than a kid touching a hot stovetop and turns swiftly to unlock the door. He pushes the door open, tentatively climbing the steps before moving out of the way so Liam can carry Harry inside.

The first thing Louis notices right away, is the incredibly pungent smell of marijuana, mixed with a hint of vanilla.

He finally takes in the mysterious interior of the infamous red bus. It’s decorated much like Harry’s dressing rooms are, with scented candles lining the window sills and brightly coloured furniture. There’s a small kitchenette and a table on the right-side next to the small restroom just like their bus is designed. There’s a lava lamp stood next to an ashtray with a half-smoked spliff on the counter next to the sink.

There are also six bunks, three on each side just like the crew bus. However, at the very back of the bus, separated from the rest of the living quarters by a curtain of shiny green and yellow beads, is a large bed, only slightly smaller than a queen. The sheets are a crisp white, rumpled and unmade.

“Where should I put him?” Liam asks. He shifts Harry around in his arms, cradling him bridal-style so as to not bump Harry’s head on the low ceiling.

“Probably the bed,” Louis points to the big one in the back, assuming that one is Harry’s. “We should put him on his side in case he starts choking.”

Liam does as he’s told, walking through the beads and gently laying Harry down on the bed, propping two of his pillows underneath him and turning him onto his left side. Liam stands up straight and stretches his muscles.

“Thank you, Li. For carrying him all that way,” Louis says.

“No problem, mate. Been needing a bit of a harder work out if I’m honest,” Liam brushes him off kindly.

Louis rolls his eyes. “What? And lugging around heavy equipment all the time isn’t enough of one?”

Liam laughs at the joke and Louis laughs too for a brief moment, before remembering Harry and the situation at hand.

“Can you go find Paul?” Louis asks, eying Harry’s unconscious body up and down. “And maybe let Sarah and the lads know we found him?”

“Sure thing,” Liam nods, heading back through the beaded curtain toward the door. “You sure you can handle him from here?”

“Can’t be that hard. I’ve nursed _you_ back to health after a couple of benders, haven’t I? You bloody lightweight,” Louis teases.

Liam laughs brightly, the sides of his eyes crinkling. “I’ll get you for that later, mate.” Liam opens the door, calling out before it shuts behind him, “I’ll be right back!”

Silence falls over the dark bus and Louis turns to look back down at Harry lying on the bed, his skin drenched in sweat – he and Harry alone once again.

Louis sighs, thinking back to the Harry he met in his dressing room, alive and bright, dancing to the Beatles and obsessing over candles. Louis looks at him now and it tugs at his heart, an unsettling feeling resting in his gut that this happens more often than it should.

“Water,” Louis finally says to the quiet room. “You need water.”

Louis walks the small distance back to the kitchenette, opening random cupboards until he finds an unopened water bottle. Grabbing a second one just in case, he returns to Harry’s bedside, sitting himself down on the edge.

Louis pauses for a moment, unsure if he’s even allowed to touch, but the lingering panic of Harry’s state overrides boundary reservations.

“Harry.”

Louis starts to gently shake the boy by the shoulder. Harry lets out a low groan, which is a good sign that he hasn’t completely blacked out. Louis takes this as permission to shake him a little more aggressively. “Harry, you’ve got to wake up. _Harry._ ”

After about a minute, after a few more groans, getting louder and more coherent, Harry slowly blinks his eyes open. He squints up at Louis, pupils so large there’s only a small sliver of iris visible.

“That’s it. C’mon, Harry…”

Harry slowly lifts his left hand in the air, eyes crossed in struggling concentration following his own movement. He holds up his hand an inch in front of Louis’ face, keeping it there for a second before he lets it fall, right down hard onto Louis’ nose.

“ _Ow,_ ” Louis winces as Harry giggles.

Harry slowly crawls his fingers to the side, Louis frozen and utterly confused as to what the fuck he’s doing. His fingers finally settle by the sides of Louis’ cheekbone, softly stroking the skin by his right eye.

“Blue eyes,” Harry slurs, a sloppy smirk growing on his face. “ _Lou_ -ee…”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, unable to fight the blush creeping onto his face underneath Harry’s touch. Even through the haze of the drugs, Harry still recognizes him. Remembers his name even despite not having spoken to him in days since the dressing room adventure. “It’s me.”

Harry suddenly tries to sit up, hand sliding down from Louis’ face. He sways, though, from side to side, vertigo an obvious side effect of the sudden movement coupled with however many doses of Quaaludes are still poisoning his body.

“Careful,” Louis warns, quickly steadying his waist with both of his hands. Beneath the thin fabric of Harry’s pink see-through blouse, Louis can feel his soft, squishy love handles under his palms. The only thing he can do to stop himself from squeezing the boy’s skin harder is to keep to the task at hand.

With one hand still keeping Harry upright, Louis leans back to grab one of the water bottles where he set them down at the foot of the bed. He gently pushes Harry backward, so that he can lean back onto the wall behind him. He unscrews the cap and lifts the bottle to Harry’s mouth.

“You need to drink. Can you do it by yourself?”

Harry seems to more or less understand what Louis asks, because he grips the bottle with both of his shaking hands, almost like a baby. He takes one gulp, most of the water dribbling onto his chin, until Harry must realize how thirsty he is. He tips his whole head back, chugging the water until the bottle’s half empty in only seconds.

“No, no, no!” Louis shouts, reaching to grab the bottle from him, some of the remaining water sloshing onto his hand. “Not so fast, Harry! You’re going to –“

Sure enough, Harry’s whole face becomes as green as his eyes, a horrid gagging noise escaping from his throat.

“ – puke. _Fuck,_ ” Louis curses, clenching his eyes shut.

As soon as Louis hears the distinct noise of retching, he’s up on his feet, searching the space for a bin, a bucket, _anything._

He spies a large bowl on the floor on the opposite side of the bed, probably once full with popcorn if the leftover kernels at the bottom are anything to go by. Louis rushes back over to Harry and shoves the bowl into his lap, angling his aim so as to not get anymore vomit onto himself.

Louis can remember what he was doing two months ago. Two months ago, he was in his dingy flat while Liam was in class, or work, or at the gym, or wherever else he might have been whenever Louis had the place to himself. Most likely, he was lying flat on his couch, thinking existentially about his place in the world. Thinking about how he’ll probably end up in some random job – maybe as a clerk or a banker –  with a wife and a dog and a baby, pretending he doesn’t hate every minute of it. Most likely he was also listening to Harry Styles’ album on repeat, thinking about all the things he’d like to do with him that he certainly couldn’t with any hypothetical wife.

Today, _right now_ , Louis’ on a bus in Chicago, Illinois, holding back a high Harry Styles’ hair while he pukes his brains out, and all Louis can do is laugh. He laughs to himself at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation he’s found himself in, too crazy for past-Louis to ever concoct a dream about, using his free hand to rub soothing circles into Harry’s lower back.

“You’re okay, H. Get it all out.”

Despite the foul smell and how momentarily unattractive this is, vomiting is probably the best thing for Harry right now, Louis realizes. He’s got to get everything out of his system.

So Louis sits there waits it out, wincing slightly each time Harry’s whole body lurches, continuing to rub his back. After a few minutes of Harry heavily breathing into the bowl without any more heaving, Louis assumes the nausea has passed – for now, at least.

“Feel better?” Louis asks quietly. He let’s go of Harry’s hair, and without even realizing what he’s doing, he brushes the frizzy, escaped flyaways off his forehead and out of his eyes.

Slowly, Harry lifts his head just slightly, probably not having the strength to lift any further. His eyes meet Louis’ and Louis sees a million different words in them, but he can’t seem to figure out what any of them are. Harry doesn’t say any of them either – only nodding ever-so-slightly in answer.

Harry’s eyes flicker up further then, where Louis’ fingers remain tangled in his hair.

Louis immediately pulls them back, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Erm, here,” Louis carefully moves the popcorn bowl full of sick from Harry’s lap onto the floor and opens the second bottle of water. Harry looks at the water with a frightened expression. Louis can’t help but softly chuckle at him, the stupidly cute bugger. “Small sips this time. I’ll help.”

Louis holds up the water to his lips for him, helping him take a few sips, taking small pauses in between to make sure he can keep it down.

He twists the cap back on and leans back, getting a good look at Harry. He’s a right mess – his face looking like a combination of a ghost and a clown that got caught in the rain. His chin down to his chest is covered in drying vomit, and his hair charitably looks a bit like a bird’s nest

Louis should be completely disgusted. He should be turned off by Harry’s pathetic state, looking perfectly the part of the mysterious, clichéd rockstar after hours. Instead, Louis just feels sad.

He feels sad because he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why someone so talented and beautiful has to be so fucked up all the time. And it isn’t just because of the drug and party culture that’s so mainstream these days – Louis can tell. He’s spent weeks watching Harry from afar, always searching for some sort of vice at any point in the day.

Harry’s so _young,_ too. Why does it seem like no one’s ever told him he should slow down?

There’s more to Harry Styles than other people are seeing. Louis really wants to be the one who finds out what.

Harry’s eyes begin to droop, his head lolling to the side as his neck loses its ability to hold it up any longer.

“You must be exhausted,” Louis says, not really expecting an answer. He stands back up on his feet, gently guiding Harry back onto the pillows. He’s asleep almost instantly.

He walks into the tiny bathroom and finds a flannel hanging. He grabs it, wetting it with some of the left over water. He gets to work cleaning Harry up, wiping away the sweat and stray makeup before moving on to the vomit.

Once his face is clean, Louis tosses the flannel to the side and unbuttons his soiled shirt, letting that fall to the ground as well once he peels the sleeves down Harry’s arms. He ignores Harry’s bare chest, tattoos fully up close and on display, moving down to his feet, yanking off his studded boots.

Louis doesn’t bother with his trousers because frankly he doesn’t know how Harry gets into them, let alone how he would get him out. Also, Louis is very honest with himself and stripping Harry down to nothing but his pants is just too much.

Just as Louis’ pulling the duvet over Harry, the door to the bus opens, a concerned looking Paul climbing in.

“Paul,” Louis says, dropping the blanket over Harry as if he was caught doing something wrong, and not just intimately tucking his half-naked and wasted rockstar client in to bed. He walks through the beaded curtain to greet the man.

“Louis,” Paul replies. He nods over Louis’ shoulder in the direction of Harry. “Is he good? Sleeping?”

“Yeah, finally. I got him to throw up most of it, and he got some water in him.”

“Good,” Paul nods again. “Sorry you got stuck with him tonight. It’s normally my job, but tonight did not go as planned. We’ll need to hire more security, because that’s not fucking happening again.”

Louis chest tightens as his suspicions are all but confirmed. He turns and steals another glance at Harry’s sleeping form. “This happens often?”

Paul laughs and Louis winces. “It’s standard for him, yeah. ‘S a lot more difficult to do when he’s got company that I need to chase away. You got lucky tonight.”

 _Lucky?_ Louis wants to vomit himself at the sentiment.

“He’s hardly ever like this when Niall’s around, though. The kid always seems to knock some sense into ‘im,” Paul comments.

Niall, as Louis learned from some of the other roadies who have been around since the beginning of Harry’s tour in Europe, is Harry’s childhood best friend and manager. Now that Louis thinks of it, Harry _did_ seem less…all over the place while Niall was hanging around. He left after a couple of days though, some work emergency that he had to tend to back in London.

Louis can imagine how hard that must be, how sad Harry must get each time Niall has to leave if they’re as close as everyone says they are. Louis can’t imagine being on the road, so far away from his family without having Liam here, too. And Louis doesn’t even have the added stress of performing and being dangerously famous, always being under somebody’s microscope.

“Doesn’t anyone else ever try that?” Louis finds himself asking. “Doesn’t anyone else try to knock some sense into him?”

Paul just sighs and shrugs his giant shoulders. “Look, I’m not saying it’s the most sustainable lifestyle. Lord knows we’ve lost some real legends because they couldn’t hold their shit. And I love the kid, I really do. But I’ve been working this business long enough to know they’re all the same – singers, you know? Every boy with a shiny, pretty voice signs his life away along with his signature on the dotted line of his recording contract. It’s inevitable, son.”

Louis refuses to believe that, something angry growing inside him. His hands ball into fists, ready to tell him as much, but Paul rests a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“Don’t work yourself up over it, Louis. You’ll learn, it’s much easier to just let it go. Now, why don’t you hit the sack. You must be tired, I’ll take it from here.”

Louis does his best to refrain from rolling his eyes at his dismissal. He turns to look at Harry again, his face pinched in sleep, no doubt that he’ll wake up with a hangover from hell. He’s hesitant to leave Harry at all.

He sighs, mumbling a goodnight to Paul before stalking out of the bus, ready for this whole fucking night to be over.

He bumps into Sarah on the last step, Mitch, Clare, and Adam all standing behind her, probably heading into the bus for the night as well.

“Sorry, love,” Louis apologizes, sidestepping out of the way.

“That’s alright,” Sarah says, eyes tired but much less frantic than before. “Your friend told us you found him. Thank you.”

“Of course. We couldn’t have our singer out loose in Chicago, could we?” Louis jokes, hoping it’ll sound as if his reasoning for finding Harry was founded on anything else other than his own blasphemous agenda.

Sarah and the rest of the band laugh. “I’m also sorry for yelling at you. If I offended you, I mean. You seemed a bit off.”

“Oh,” Louis chuckles nervously. “No offense, at all. I think I was just surprised you knew my name, honestly.”

“Of course I know your name,” Sarah smiles. “We all do. You’re the infamous inventor of the churro candle.”

***

After that, things are…different.

The next morning, Louis wakes up with a dull headache, his body vibrating along with the vibrations of the moving bus as he curls up in his bunk.

Last night was…

Last night was weird and Louis’ isn’t quite sure it wasn’t all just a fever dream spurred on by alcohol, or some projection of Louis’ mind in which an alternate universe exists where Harry Styles might _need_ him in some way – in any way.

Louis pulls back the curtain shielding his bunk and squints at the bright, invasive light that shines through the large windows. Across from him, Sandy is still snoring from behind his curtained bunk, but the one above it is empty.

Groaning dramatically as he rolls out of bed and onto his feet, Louis ignores the uncomfortable rumbling of his stomach. It’s not nausea exactly, but a strange sort of uneasiness. Maybe it’s just hunger – Louis thinks too much about shit.

“Morning,” Liam greets him, mouth full of Cocoa Krispies and sprawled out onto one of the sofa benches. Greg is sat beside him in a similar set up, cereal bowl in one hand, and a book in the other.

“Morning,” Louis parrots. He makes grabby hands at the cereal, Liam handing him the half-empty box. “Where are we?”

“Just passed over into Wisconsin not too long ago,” Greg says, not lifting his eyes from his worn copy of _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas._

They left for St. Paul not that long ago either then. Louis must have been so fucking knackered that he didn’t even wake up at the booming roar of the engine starting.

“So how’d it go?”

Louis looks up from pouring milk to Liam, confused. “How’d what go?”

Liam slurps up another spoonful of cereal. “With Styles. After I left?”

“Oh, erm, fine?”

Liam snorts. “Wish I stuck around for a bit, actually. I kept thinking about you trying to wrangle a plastered six-foot bloke into bed all by yourself.”

Louis lovingly kicked his best mate in the shin, to which Liam let out a satisfying hiss, as he walked to the other bench opposite them with his cereal.

“Aren’t you _hilarious_ this morning,” Louis grumbles sarcastically.

The lads fall into a comfortable silence as they eat their shitty breakfast, the sun coming in through the windows feeling warm against Louis’ skin.

He rests his head against the glass and spies a sliver of the red bus driving up ahead in the distance. To himself, he wonders if Harry’s awake yet. The masochistic part of him wonders if Harry remembers anything about last night – if he remembers Louis at all.

A few hours later, the buses stop at a diner on the outskirts of Winona, Minnesota for lunch.

Louis smiles to himself as he steps off the bus, breathing in the fresh summer air that he’s come to love while on the road. His brain really does feel a weird difference in clarity compared to being confined to the smoky London fog all the time.

Greg and Sandy chose to stay on the bus to nap, so Liam and Louis share a booth, just the two of them, making sure to bring back the other lads something to eat after.

The diner itself is as typical as the other classic “American” style diners that they’ve eaten at over the past few weeks have been. Chrome tables with shiny red vinyl booths lined the restaurant, the smell of grease and stale coffee strong in the air. There’s a wooden jukebox in the far corner near the restrooms, the Beach Boys’ “ _Don’t Worry Baby”_ playing softly in the background.

Louis scans his menu, in the mood for something salty and wildly unhealthy.

“Lou, do you think I should get the blueberry pancakes or a BLT?”

Louis looks up from his menu to give his opinion when, out of nowhere, Harry Styles with a wide and toothy grin, plops down across from him into the seat next to Liam, bum bouncing slightly on the vinyl.

“Blueberry pancakes, definitely,” Harry suggests, picking up an extra menu from the table and giving it a read.

Liam and Louis exchange a brief look, Liam raising an eyebrow at Louis.

“Harry…” Louis starts, still thrown off by the singer’s sudden appearance.

Harry looks up from his menu in acknowledgement of his name. He holds Louis’ questioning stare for a moment before a thought seemingly crosses his mind. He perks up, despite his already clearly sunny composure and turns his torso toward Liam, offering his hand.

“Lou-ee, you haven’t yet introduced me to your friend. Hi, I’m Harry. You work with Alberto on the lights, right?”

Louis scoffs, “Didn’t know I was meant to…?”

Liam laughs, shaking Harry’s hand, the friendliest lad he is. “Liam Payne. Nice to officially meet you. That’s right. I have to say, I didn’t know much about you before, but you’re right talented, you are.”

Harry’s face lights up, his whole demeanor wide and awake and the complete _opposite_ of how Louis left him not even twelve hours ago.

“Thank you! Wouldn’t look nearly the part without your help,” Harry’s body is still positioned toward Liam, but he sneaks a wink across the table to Louis. Louis doesn’t have a moment to react before Harry turns around to look about the diner, changing the subject. “Have you lads ordered yet? I’m absolutely famished.”

Louis can’t help but laugh in disbelief. “Are you impervious to hangovers or something?”

Looking him up and down now, you wouldn’t be able to tell what Harry’s was up to last night unless you had seen if for yourself. He’s clean, looking freshly showered and bare-faced. His eyes aren’t bloodshot, but instead are their typical soft, sage green, if only a little bit sleepy.

The next thing that throws Louis off is what Harry’s wearing. He’s never _not_ seen him in some flashy, brilliant looking ensemble made of silk or sequins. Right now, sitting pretty next to his best mate, he’s got on a loose, comfortable looking Rolling Stones t-shirt and a pair of purple flared corduroys.

He looks…he looks like a boy. Like a normal, twenty-year-old lad getting a late breakfast in a diner and not a famous rockstar who just woke up from a late-night rendezvous with some Quaaludes.

Harry smiles back at Louis, his face amused. He shrugs his shoulders innocently. “Definitely not, but nothing that a fry-up can’t fix.”

For sure as hell not the first time, Louis thinks to himself, _who the fuck is this kid?_

Louis laughs despite himself, shaking his head as he lifts up a hand to flag down a waitress. “Alright. A fry-up it is, then.”

Lunch doesn’t turn out to be as weird as Louis originally thinks. Once they get their food – blueberry pancakes for Liam, a cheese toastie for Louis, and a classic American-style breakfast plate for Harry – the singer takes it upon himself to keep the conversation going.

And the thing is, Harry is hilarious. And by hilarious, he means that Harry has the worst repertoire of jokes he’s _ever_ heard, and just that concept alone is one of the most endearingly funny things that Louis has ever seen.

“No, no, I swear, _this_ one’s brilliant,” Harry prefaces.

“That’s what you said about the last three, mate,” Liam says, stabbing a stray blueberry with his fork.

“Now, c’mon, Liam,” Louis playfully chides, “let’s let him tell it. The last one _was_ a slight improvement over the others.” Louis looks to Harry, who positively preens at the compliment.

“Thank you, Louis. Now, what’s loud and sounds like apples?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“APPLES!”

Louis throws his head back laughing, Liam chuckling into his coffee mug. They receive a few looks from the other patrons in the restaurant, but not in the way they usually get looks from others in public. They don’t linger, it being very clear that most of the people in the room – of predominantly a notably older generation – have no idea who Harry is.

It must be nice for him, Louis thinks. For Harry to have a casual meal for once without any sort of chaos or interruption.

“No, that was pretty terrible, actually. I should’ve listened to Liam.”

After another ten minutes of Harry trying to convince his company that he’s a top-shelf comedian, Liam excuses himself to the loo, telling them that he’ll swing by the front counter and order some takeaway for Greg and Sandy.

Once it’s just the two of them sitting across from each other at the booth, Louis is instantly taken back to last night. He still doesn’t even know if Harry remembers anything at all and Louis feels weird about it.

The sudden lull in conversation that falls between them is obvious, and he starts to eat some more of his chips just to have something to do, but Louis doesn’t have to sit and linger in his wandering thoughts for much longer.

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly, chipping away at some leftover pink nail varnish on his thumb.

Louis pauses his chewing before swallowing audibly. “For what?”

Harry looks up from his fingers, expression soft and tired, and Louis thinks he might even detect a hint of embarrassment almost.

“I know you don’t really know me, and you didn’t owe me anything by helping me last night. But you did, so thank you,” There’s a sincerity, a genuine clarity in his voice that Louis’ never heard come from him before and it makes him smile.

So Harry does remember. He remembers and he’s _thanking_ Louis for being a decent human being, all romantic ulterior motives pushed aside at the moment.

Louis grins easily back at him, shrugging modestly. “It’s what I’d do for any friend who needed some help.”

Harry’s eyes brighten, the corners of his mouth upturning. “Friends?”

Louis feels the heat immediately rush to his face. He runs an awkward hand through his fringe before coughing into his fist. “I mean, I could be your friend, yeah. If you’d like.”

Harry nods vigorously, his freshly washed curls bouncing up and down as he does.

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

Louis has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from smiling too big so as to not to look like a completely smitten idiot.

Harry forms a mischievous gleam in his eye as he catches sight of Louis’ almost-finished food.

“Well, since we’ve established this friendship, I have no qualms letting my manners slide a bit,” Harry says before he snatches up three ketchup-doused chips from Louis’ plate, his tongue sticking out before he shoves them all into his mouth. He hums, satisfied as he chews.

Louis raises his eyes, amused, as he chuckles. “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you Styles? Lucky for you, I don’t mind sharing.”

Liam returns to the table with two doggy bags and Harry insists on paying for the rest of their meals. Louis makes to protest, but Harry claims it as payment for forcing him and Liam to sit through his unwarranted comedy show.

The sun shines warmly on the three of them as they leave the diner, and for the first time Louis notices what Harry’s got on his feet: a very loved-looking and worn-in pair of hot pink Chuck Taylor’s, the laces a dirty off-white and fraying at the ends.

 _Fucking adorable._ Louis would be lying if he said he doesn’t like Harry’s stage ensembles, but he’s thinking he might like this dressed-down version of Harry even more. He just seems so relaxed – so completely comfortable in his own skin.

Louis expects that to be it. Everyone is loading back onto the buses to ride the rest of the way to St. Paul and Louis figures he won’t see Harry again until they get to the venue or after the show, even.

However, as if this day isn’t already weird enough, Harry doesn’t go back to the red bus. The singer skips – _skips_ – across the rest of the car park, past Louis and Liam and climbs up the stairs onto their black one. They share a look before following in after him. Harry’s leaning his back against the driver’s seat, taking in the messy contents of their mobile home, dirty cereal bowls on the table, smelly socks on the floor and all.

Greg and Sandy are awake now, sitting on one of the bench seats and Louis can’t help but snicker at the shocked expressions on their faces from Harry’s presence in the bus.

“Hello,” Harry greets them with a friendly wave, unbothered by the fact that the two of them are looking at him as if he’s sprouted a third eye. He turns to Louis to ask, “So. What do you guys do on here for fun?”

The crewmen all exchange looks with one another, some of the quieter lads even poking their heads out from their bunks to see what’s going on with their new visitor.

“Erm,” Louis suddenly can’t remember anything they do when they have down time, though if that’s the case, it’s bound to sound dreadfully boring to Harry compared to whatever he gets up to while the sun’s up. “We mostly just hang about? Talk and have a laugh or summat…”

That sure does a sufficient job of letting Harry know how utterly lame he is. _Well done, Louis._

“We’ve got some dope,” Greg volunteers, holding up a makeshift teacup-saucer ashtray holding a couple spliffs.

Harry immediately zeroes in on them, smile widening because, of course. Louis kind of wants to kick Greg for it. He doesn’t actually think marijuana is harmful – if he did, he wouldn’t participate in it himself – but the giddiness that comes out of Harry at the suggestion of recreational drugs makes Louis cringe.

“Brill!” Harry exclaims. “Mind if I chill out here for a bit?”

Louis can’t help but wonder if Harry only wants to be around them now that he’s been offered drugs, but he tries to quell the thought. Harry just said he wanted to be Louis’ friend. He can’t ruin a friendship before it’s even really begun because he’s insecure about where Harry’s attention comes from. Not to mention, that he’s stupidly selfish and doesn’t want to waste an opportunity to be near him.

“Of course,” Louis says eventually, smiling at him. “Make yourself at home.”

They spend the afternoon passing around the weed and Louis feels looser because of it, more relaxed as he sits close next to Harry on the floor. Harry insisted on telling Sandy and Greg the same jokes he tested out on Louis and Liam in the diner – _“Shh, don’t give it away, Louis.” “You don’t have to worry about that, it was so bad I’ve blocked it from my memory already.”_ – and even some new ones, which were decidedly just as terrible.

“Is that a guitar?” Harry asks at some point, motioning over to what looked like the wooden neck of an acoustic guitar sticking out from underneath one of the bunks.

“Oh, yeah,” Sandy says, coughing as he passes the spliff to Liam. “I picked that up when we were in Nashville.”

“Mind if I play something?”

“Sure, mate.” Sandy gets up to retrieve his guitar and handing it over to Harry.

Louis watches him as he smiles quietly to himself, getting a feel of the wood and the strings. He starts plucking at them, giving it a slight tune.

“This is a nice one,” Harry compliments. He starts to quietly strum, notes and chords beginning to come through and string together. He hums out a soft melody, the lads all stopping their conversation to silently watching him play.

“ _When you go and I’m alone, you live in my imagination,_ ” Harry sings. “ _The summertime and butterflies, all belong to your creation…_ ”

It’s so much different than Harry’s normal sound. It’s delicate, calm, and Harry looks so at peace with his eyes closed and a guitar in his lap, stripped down from all the lights and the glitter.

“That’s beautiful, Harry,” Louis blurts out. He blames the weed.

Harry stops playing and opens his eyes, a small smile forming on his plush lips. “Thank you.”

“Is that a new song?”

“Not sure yet,” Harry shrugs. “Was just messing around, mostly.”

“Well, I think it’s lovely,” Louis says before he can stop himself.

His chest tightens at the way Harry smiles back at him.

In his peripheral vision, Louis notices Liam eyeing him with an odd expression, the spliff dangling between his lips. He can’t tell if Liam’s just spaced out or not, but it makes him uneasy.

“Erm, I’m gonna make some tea,” Louis announces, standing up to his feet. He needs to sober up some to combat his sudden surge of marijuana-induced paranoia thanks to Liam.

“Make me a cuppa, too, please?”

Louis turns from the cupboard he just opened to look back at Harry, finding his soft, questioning eyes where they seemed to have been waiting, expecting his own.

He gulps. “Sure.”

“Thanks, Lou,” Harry says with a grin before returning his attention back to the guitar in his lap, creating more beautiful notes with his fingertips.

_Lou._

Yep. He’s really fucking screwed.

***

Harry starts seeking Louis out between shows.

An hour before the show in Kansas City, Harry comes bounding around backstage, hair wild and half-dressed. He pulls Louis away from Liam and Alberto, insisting that he needs Louis’ immediate attention.

Louis doesn’t think about much other than Harry’s gentle grip around his wrist until the singer shoves him through the door of his dressing room and past the midnight blue sign.

_Only the Moon and Her Lovers._

“What’s this about, Harry?” Louis laughs at the boy’s haste.

The warmth around his wrist vanishes as Harry lets go of him, moving swiftly to his vanity.

“I simply _can’t_ decide which colour to wear tonight to best compliment my outfit,” Harry explains, using his head to motion toward the suit jacket and boots hanging in the corner of the room, perfectly matching the shiny silver trousers he’s got on.

 _The only thing he’s got on, Jesus Christ,_ Louis thinks, momentarily distracted by the broadness of Harry’s shoulders.

He quickly regains his composure when Harry turns around, showing Louis a box of a very large assortment of nail varnishes.

“Good Lord, Harry,” Louis chuckles. “I think you’ve got a bigger collection than my sisters.”

Harry lights up. “You’ve got sisters?”

“Mhmm, four of them. All younger,” Louis smiles proudly. He wonders how they’re doing back at home. He misses them. He should really send them back a postcard.

“That’s amazing. I’ve always wanted a sister,” Harry says.

“Oh yeah? Got any brothers?” Louis asks, curiously.

Harry’s face falls a bit, his voice quiet as he thumbs through his box. “No, no. Just me.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. It’s the first real personal thing he’s learned about Harry – the first real personal thing that Harry’s voluntarily shared, actually – though, it doesn’t seem to be something that holds a particularly happy connotation.

Louis is instantly curious. There’s something else there, something that cuts a lot deeper than Harry lets on, but Louis doesn’t push. It’s _definitely_ not his fucking place, even if Louis wants nothing more than to step inside that mysterious brain of his and learn everything there is to know about him. Louis very much likes the privacy of his own head, and Harry deserves the same courtesy.

“Let’s have a look then,” Louis says, taking the box from Harry. “I’ve painted my sisters’ nails more times than I can count. I might actually be of help with this.”

He gives Harry a playful nudge and it works, Harry’s frown immediately washing away back into his previous enthusiasm.

Louis walks over and sits in the vanity chair, placing the box in his lap. Harry jumps up to sit on the counter next to him in front of the lit mirror, his legs so long that his toes are able to just barely brush the floor.

He takes his time looking at each colour, pulling faces as he inspects them to make Harry laugh, holding the bottles up to Harry’s trousers to compare.

“What do you think about…these two?” Louis holds up a lavender bottle and sparkling blue one.

Harry pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and his forefingers adorably, humming in consideration. His eyes flick up from the bottles to Louis, lips still pinched as the corners of his mouth escalate.

“I quite like blue.”

Louis matches Harry’s grin, nodding as he puts the lavender bottle back into the box with the others and holds out the blue one for him.

“Blue it is then, rockstar.”

Harry doesn’t take the bottle though. Instead, Louis sees a flash of an idea spark in Harry’s eyes.

“Can you do them?”

Louis blinks, laughing nervously as he’s caught off-guard by the question. Harry wants him to _paint his nails_ for him?

“C’mon, Lou! Please?” Harry grabs onto Louis’ forearm, looking like a child pleading for an ice cream cone on a hot day despite already having dessert. “You said so yourself that you do it for your sisters all the time.”

Louis glances between Harry’s smooth hands on his skin and – Jesus, he’s fucking batting his _eyelashes._

It’s all Louis can do to just nod, swallowing slowly. “Right. Yeah, okay.”

Satisfied with getting his way, Harry offers Louis his right hand, wiggling his bare fingers, ringless and soft-looking.

Louis untwists the lid of the bottle, the pungent smell of the nail varnish mixing together in the air with the trusty cinnamon and vanilla candles burning.

Harry’s hands are much bigger and steadier – and _manlier_ – than any of his sisters’ hands, and after the first stripe of sparkling blue paint onto his middle fingernail, it already feels extremely intimate. It’s quiet in the room, only _Tupelo Honey_ spinning lowly in the background.

Louis hesitantly lifts his eyes upward, finding Harry watching him intently. The singer gives him a small nod, a silent _keep going_. So he does.

It’s a rarity to see Harry so calm. Normally, he has such a manic energy about him – a clumsy puppy, coupled with a ten-year-old on a sugar high, thrown in with his ridiculous sex appeal – especially when he’s on drugs. Louis never truly knows how to describe him, because at the same time, Harry’s also got this gentle side that seems to come out every-so-often, and only with a handful of people; with Niall, with his band, and now it seems, Louis. He’s sitting still _for Louis._

They don’t talk. Instead, they listen to Van Morrison while Harry sits patiently and Louis concentrates on keeping the paint on his nails rather than his skin.

When Louis moves onto Harry’s left hand, he pauses.

He’s seen the little cross tattoo before – he’s going to pretend it’s not because he sometimes watches Harry’s hands while he gesticulates – but he’s never seen it at eye level before.

This close, just at the top of where his thumb meets his pointer finger, Louis can see the thick lines of ink. He can see the textured ridges of skin underneath that had once upon a time been bare.

Louis’ not a nihilist by any means, but religion does sometimes make him anxious. Perhaps it’s not religion itself that makes him feel ashamed to be who he is sometimes, but rather the people who use their religion as a weapon to make people like Louis feel unsafe.

Louis’ eyes move from his tattoo to the silver cross pendant that he’s never seen Harry without. Obviously, faith must be something important to him. Important enough for him to get something permanently on his skin.

Harry wouldn’t be one of those people, right? Harry doesn’t seem like the type to even hurt a fly. Then again, there is still so much about the boy that Louis doesn’t know about.

“Are you okay, Lou?”

Harry’s voice brings Louis out of his thoughts. Harry’s peering down at him with a pinched brow and Louis realizes how weird it must have looked, having Louis staring intensely at his hand.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Louis laughs, his ears hot with embarrassment. “Spaced out for a bit, I think.”

Harry doesn’t press further and Louis continues painting his nails, paying slightly less attention to neatness than he did with Harry’s other hand.

When Louis finishes, Harry sits back, spreading all ten fingers wide in front of him, inspecting Louis’ work.

Harry smiles brightly at him, waving his arms in a circle in what Louis guesses is an attempt at making the paint dry faster. “Thank you, Louis. They’re beautiful.”

“You’re welcome. They _do_ look nice, if I say so myself,” Louis replies, hoping to return to their casual banter before Louis made himself feel awkward.

Mindfully, so as to not mess up his nails, Harry slides the box of varnishes back over to him with his palm.

“Do you want me to do yours now, too?”

Louis’ body tenses.

“What?”

“We can be matching! Blue suits you and – Lou?” Harry cuts himself off as Louis hastily stands up from his chair, walking back a few steps from the vanity, and Harry.

 _No,_ Louis immediately thinks. He can’t have his _own_ nails all coloured and sparkly. It only works for Harry. It’s – it’s part of Harry’s _thing._ His _persona._ He’s a rockstar who can get away with flashy things like that and no one thinks anything of it. All it is, is a bit of fun.

If Louis were to walk out this room with bright blue, shimmering nails, people would know. They’d _know._ And just – _no._

Louis coughs into his fist, heading toward the door. “I’m sorry, Harry. I just realized how late it’s getting. I gotta head back and help out the lads and…and you should get ready.”

Harry blinks at him, still perched on the counter, looking entirely unsure of what’s happened. Louis inwardly curses when he sees a bit of disappointment that flashes in Harry’s eyes. Disappointment _he_ put there.

“Oh, okay. ‘Righty then,” Harry says, deep voice small.

“Have a good show,” Louis replies back, ending the sentiment with an attempt at a smile before leaving the room.

He shuts the door quietly behind him, briskly walking back through the venue to where he left Liam and Alberto behind.

Harry gets fucked up again that night and Louis does his best to not feel a little personally responsible for it.

Louis had worries that the way he reacted to Harry’s offer to paint his nails might mess up his new friendship with Harry. However, it seems as though his worries might have been misplaced.

Harry continues to keep popping up and finding Louis everywhere he goes, completely unaffected as if the whole strange ordeal never happened.

In Dallas, Harry asks Louis to come sightseeing with him.

Well, it wasn’t so much “sightseeing” as it was “sneak away from Paul and walk around town all afternoon.”

Louis had been sleeping, quite peacefully he must add, under his covers when at about half past nine in the morning, he was awakened by a quick hand yanking back the curtains of his bunk.

“What the – “ Louis grunts, his sleep-crusted eyes squinting. He jerks back in surprise at the sight of a very wide-awake Harry crouched down, poking his head in. He’s bouncing slightly, smile disturbingly wide for the early hour.

“Morning, sunshine!” Harry greets.

Louis hears some of the other lads stir awake at their very chipper guest.

“H, a little quieter please.”

“Oh,” Harry giggles. He whispers to the rest of the bus, “Sorry, lads!”

Louis laughs and shakes his head. He climbs out of his bunk knowing now that Harry’s here, he’s not getting anymore sleep that morning. His feet land on the gross carpet and he yawns, stretching his his arms up over his head.

“Yes, Harry? You rang?”

Dimples out, Harry pulls him by the hand toward the front of the bus. “I want to go sightseeing.”

“Sightseeing?” Louis repeats, looking around his stuff for a clean shirt.

“Yes! C’mon, let’s go. Just the two of us, it’ll be fun.”

“Harry,” Louis laughs, pulling a plain white tee over his hand. He blows the fringe out of his eyes. He ignores the rush he feels at the words _just the two of us._ “Have you forgotten that you’re one of the most famous lads on the planet right now? You’ll be mobbed in two seconds without any security.”

Harry rolls his eyes and sits down on one of the benches. “I think we’ll be fine. Besides, Paul trusts you.”

“Paul would have my head, fire me, then ship me back to England if anything were to happen to you.”

“Not if I have any say about that. Paul works for _me._ ” Harry breaks out his cheeky-fucker smile, the one where he shows all his teeth like an adorable creep.

Louis sighs. He’ll admit, the idea of spending an entire day alone with Harry, no handlers breathing down their necks, nowhere they need to be, sounds really fucking lovely. Even if Texas is hot as balls.

“Pretty please, Lou?” Harry pouts his bottom lip, batting his eyelashes.

A groan sounds from the directions of the bunks. Greg pokes his head out from one of the lower bunks.

“Just fucking go, Louis, so he’ll stop whinging and let us sleep.”

Louis smirks, flipping him off as Greg returns one and slinks back into his dark cocoon.

“Fine,” Louis finally agrees. “Let’s go skive off today.”

Harry silently cheers and Louis is horribly endeared.

“You finish getting dressed, I’ll meet you outside in five.” Harry winks at him before leaving.

Louis bites his lip to hide his smile as he searches for his jeans.

Of course, once they make it past the buses without Paul catching them and they walk further into town, it became clear how right Louis had been.

The two of them dodge two different groups of fans in the span of forty-five minutes. At some point, they make it to a nearly deserted street. Harry stops them as they pass a store, wicked grin growing on his face.

“What are you talking about, Lou? It’s a brilliant disguise.”

“Harry, it’s probably the worst disguise ever. No one’s going to be fooled.”

Louis is stood corrected though, when after Harry comes bounding out of the shop with a newly-purchased cowboy hat, hair tucked up underneath it and walking with a spring in his step, hands on the front of his hips as if he’s wearing a belt with a big ol’ buckle to show off, Harry doesn’t get stopped again.

“I told you,” Harry says, smug. “ _Brilliant._ ”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep holding your breath, rockstar.” Louis has to turn his head away so Harry can’t see the way he’s started smiling like an idiot.

They walk around for the rest of the afternoon. Granted, there isn’t actually all that much to _sightsee_ in Dallas - it’s no New York or D.C. - but it is a nice, all-American city. They end up grabbing takeaway from a corner shop across from a park for lunch, sitting down in the grass and enjoying the sun.

Louis’ burger is delicious, hitting the spot after spending most of his morning on the move. He takes two of Harry’s chips and pops them in his mouth, laughing at Harry’s frown.

“What?” Louis teases. “You steal my food all the time. Didn’t your mum tell you to share, Hazza?”

Something changes in Harry’s face. His eyes fall into his lap, picking at the grass next to him.

“No, actually. She didn’t.”

It’s weird and Louis suddenly feels uncomfortable at the sudden mood shift, but it also makes him curious as all hell. There’s so much to Harry, he realizes, that he really doesn’t know - pretty much anything beyond his music and candle preferences.

He let’s it go, though, since something obviously about mentioning Harry’s mother bothered him.

They finished eating in relative silence, but the tension fades when an ice cream truck drives by and Louis’ being pulled to his feet, by an apparent six-foot ten-year-old.

The hiccup is forgotten fairly soon after that, Harry eventually getting bored and asking to go back to the buses so he can test a tune out on his guitar that’s been stuck in his head all day.

Louis calls the day a success when he doesn’t nearly give himself away for the Harry-adoring freak that he his, _and_ at how not-that-mad Paul seems to be for their little day off.

Dallas was good.

***

A few days later, the buses are stopped at a petrol station off the highway, thirty miles out from the New Mexico border. Next to the station is a big, dirt field, deserted save for their group.

It’s boiling out, the scorching desert sun beaming directly down from above, and yet the lads find themselves out in the field, scrimmaging around with a football and getting sunburns.

“Liam! I’m open!” Louis shouts, the breeze he feels against the back of his sweaty neck utterly blissful as he runs away from Greg, hot on his heels.

Liam passes him the ball and Louis’ foot meets it easily, faking left then dribbling right toward Sandy guarding their makeshift goal of an abandoned shopping trolley tipped on its side. He kicks it in, the ball shooting right in-between a frazzled Sandy’s knees and bouncing against the back of the trolley.

“Fuck, yes, boys! _That’s_ how you do it,” Louis gloats, pumping a fist in the air.

Sandy laughs, shaking his head, and breathing heavily. “Yeah, yeah, Tommo. We’re not worthy.”

“Damn, right,” Louis winks at him. Now that he’s still, the heat is almost unbearable. He pulls his t-shirt over the top of his head, leaving him in his white vest. He uses the discarded shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “Bollocks, it’s hot.”

“Can I join you?”

Louis turns around and there’s Harry, approaching them, bright and perky. Louis’ jaw nearly drops at the sight of him. Apparently, Harry’s way of combating the heat is by walking around near-starkers, the only material he’s got on being a short pair of light wash denim cut-offs and his pink converse on his feet. He’s pulled his hair back into a knot on the top of his head and has some aviators falling slightly down the bridge of his nose.

Louis’ eyes trail down the singer’s torso, taking in all his tattoos and defined shoulders muscles, all the way down to his slightly squidgy stomach, the hair trailing down underneath it, and finally his legs. He’s fairly sweaty too, like the rest of them, but instead of looking gross, he just… _glows._

 _Water._ Louis needs water.

He coughs into the shirt balled in his hands, hoping to cover the loud gulp sounding in his throat, a poor attempt at accumulating moisture into his now very dry esophagus.

“Erm, sure, mate,” Louis laughs, hoping Harry attributes the flush of his cheeks as the sun’s doing. “Do you play?”

Harry shrugs, stepping even closer. Liam and Greg have caught up with them now as well and they stand in a small circle.

“Sure. Play _loads_ back home.”

Louis smirks, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”

“No, not at all actually,” Harry laughs, taking his sunnies off his nose and pushing them onto his head. “Looks like fun, though.”

Then, and Louis briefly wonders if he’s been out in the sun too long and he’s started to have some fever dream, he _swears_ he catches Harry’s eyes tracing him up and down, pausing for just a moment at the sliver of skin exposed near his hip between his cotton shorts and where his vest has slightly ridden up.

The moment is gone as soon as it happens, as Sandy suddenly tosses Harry the football and the singer’s attention is now diverted to trying and failing to catch the ball in his arms. It hits him square in the chest instead, falling to the dirt, leaving Louis completely dumbfounded as to whether he was just hallucinating.

“Sweet, H,” Sandy laughs. “You can be goalkeeper.”

Louis shakes his head to himself as the lads reposition themselves.

_This fucking heat. I’m going mad, I swear._

As it turns out, though in hindsight it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise to literally anyone - Harry is completely hopeless at football.

They divide the teams – Harry, Louis, and Liam versus Greg and Sandy. The latter half complained at first about the uneven number of players, until they quickly realized how much of a disadvantage it was to have Harry on their team.

It’s not so much that Harry is _bad_ at sports, he certainly does make a valiant effort, but it’s his complete lack of grace that leads to his downfall. The bloke can barely stay standing on his own two feet and Louis finds it adorably hilarious.

Missing the ball by a mile, poor Harry finds himself falling over into the dirt more often than not, gathering quite the collection of bruises and small scrapes on his knees and elbows.

Louis takes pity on him and at some point has him switch positions with Liam, assuming Harry could at least run and kick a ball at the same time. He was wrong.

After intercepting the ball from Greg, Louis gently passes over to Harry across the field on his left. Harry bites his lip as he anticipates the ball’s arrival, only for it to somehow get caught under his feet, causing him to fall back flat on his butt with a loud, “ _Oof!_ ”

Louis runs over to him, picking up the ball and inspecting the boy for any damage. Paul will have his head if he managed to hurt Harry bad enough that he couldn’t dance around like an electrocuted peacock on stage.

“You okay, H?” Louis asks, doing his best to fight the laugh that wants to escape him.

Like, c’mon? Harry’s sat in the dirt with his legs out in front of him, a bunch of wayward curls that have fallen out of his bun in every direction, and a pout on his face. How could you _not_ want to laugh? It’s too fucking cute for Louis to handle.

“Oh, yeah, I’m tops. Nice pass,” Harry huffs, obviously trying to mask the pain he feels in his tailbone.

Louis does laugh this time, throwing his head back. “Proper footie star, you are. It’s not too late for a career change, I reckon.”

“Piss off,” Harry laughs back, the right side of his mouth quirked in a smirk.

“Time to load up, boys!” Paul calls, walking out of the petrol station mini-mart, heading back toward the buses.

Louis offers a hand out to Harry, who smiles thankfully back at him. He takes it, groaning and clutching at the bottom of his spine.

“Thanks, Lou. Think maybe I should ask Paul to run in and get some ice real quick before we leave,” Harry winces slightly as they walk behind Greg, Sandy, and Liam back to the buses. “My bum’s a bit sore.”

 _Oh, God,_ Louis thinks, his whole body shuddering at the mental image Harry just unknowingly put into his mind.

“Erm, yeah. You should. I – I’m gonna take a kip. See you later, Harry,” Louis rushes out, quickly climbing up the steps of the black bus, letting the door shut behind him.

He rips open the cooler and grabs a bottle of water, downing half of it before climbing into his bunk and closing the curtain firmly behind him.

***

Louis’ weeks on the road start to whiz by in a whirlwind of _Harry._

They spend most of their downtime together – from city to city, sneaking away from Paul to explore, or listening to music together, lying out on the floor of some venue’s dressing room or the buses.

Louis starts learning things about him, picking up on a tick here or a discarded sentence there.

For example, Harry _loves_ Stevie Nicks, this singer from a duo group from California named Buckingham Nicks. He’s listened to that album so relentlessly throughout the last year, that he’s got every lyric memorized, going on and on about Stevie, singing her praises.

“Sounds like you got a bit of a crush, mate,” Louis had teased as they smoked and Harry played him the album for the first time in his dressing room in Salt Lake. Louis was pretty sure Harry hadn’t picked up on the jealous edge in his voice.

“Nah, Lou,” Harry shook his head from the carpeted floor where he stared, blissfully high, up at the ceiling. “That’s not it. She’s just wicked cool. I don’t even know what it is really, but I constantly find myself wanting to be like her. It’s like…effortless. Natural...”

Louis wanted to argue that everything Harry did seemed just as effortless, but he didn’t. Instead, he plucked the burning joint from Harry’s fingers and took a drag.

“You sure you’re a rockstar, H? You’re sounding a bit more like a hippie.”

Harry giggled, finally looking over at Louis beside him instead of the ceiling. He sat up quickly, leaning in close to press a firm finger against Louis’ lips.

“Shh, quiet. Just listen,” Harry grinned at him. He settled back down again, this time, placing his head in Louis’ lap and closing his eyes. “ _Crystal_ is coming up next and it deserves your complete, undivided attention. Sometimes I think it’s the most romantic song that’s ever been written.”

Louis had sat there, the forgotten joint dying between his digits as he listened to two lovers singing poetic about the magnetic pull you feel when you finally meet that one special person, and stared helplessly down at Harry. He wanted so badly to run his fingers through his hair and smooth out its tangles.

Each day it seems, Louis picks up on another thing that confirms his persisting assessment that Harry is one of the oddest ducks in the pond. He’s disturbingly healthy most of the time, except when it comes to chocolate – one sniff of the stuff and his eyes practically roll into the back of his head, as if he was on one of his coke benders and not picking through a bag of M&M’s. And speaking of M&M’s, Harry’ll only eat the green and the blue ones. (“They’re all the same, Harry!” “No, they’re not. The green and the blue ones taste much sweeter!”)

His favourite movie is _The Sound of Music_ because he once told Louis he had a dream that he was Julie Andrews, singing at the top of his lungs alone in the Austrian hills and claimed that it was the best dream he’s ever had. He picks up on colloquialisms from the all the cities they’ve been in and uses them to death until someone, usually one of his bandmates, tells him to give it a rest. He’ll sometimes forget that he’s already got a pair of sunglasses in his hair and frantically search around for another one. He never talks about his family, but asks a million and one questions about Louis’.

He also, somehow, has been tricked into thinking Louis is the funniest person he’s ever met. Each time he declares as much, Louis tells him to pull the other one, then secretly cheers at having made Harry laugh again.

It’s one of Louis’ favourite things about Harry, he’s decided – his laugh. He sounds like a bloody goose.

Where there’s a Harry, there’s a Louis and it doesn’t take long for everyone else to notice.

At first, some of the older crewmen gave him sideways glances. It made Louis nervous, until he realized it was because of their annoyance over Louis shirking some of his responsibilities to follow Harry while he skips around and not because of… any other reason. Though, they eventually learn to turn the other way, because at the end of the day, Harry is the boss and they let him do whatever he wants, with whoever he wants.

Even Paul, who is not oblivious to their hooky schemes, surprisingly lets them be.

“Just… for the love of Mary, don’t let him get into trouble,” Paul says one afternoon, as they unload equipment. The burly Irishman pauses, looking Louis up and down, with an uncharacteristically soft expression, the once-permanent crease in his brown smoothed out. “You’re good for him, I think.”

He says it in an almost fatherly way, as if Louis had just asked for permission to court his daughter and Louis has no clue what to say back.

 _What does he even mean by that? That he’s_ good _for Harry?_

Paul lets him off the hook, though, dropping the box he has in his hands to attend to a crisis that’s just called for his attention.

“Don’t let me catch you, though, Tommo!” Paul calls to him as he’s walking away, round finger pointed at Louis’ chest, the brow-crease having returned to its post.

It’s Liam who is the one to actually ask him about it.

“So. You and Harry?”

“Hm?” Louis looks up from the pile of cords he’s untangling in his lap to where Liam’s fiddling with the lightboard, suddenly uneasy at his best mate’s tone.

“What about me and Harry?”

Liam shrugs and continues his programming, his back to Louis.

“Nothin’ really. You two just seem to have gotten…close.”

Louis’ heart rate spikes rapidly and he feels hot. The cords slip through his hands thanks to the sweat that’s suddenly accumulated in his palms.

“Liam –“ Louis starts carefully, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Liam turns around in his chair, looking down at Louis good-naturedly, with a small, kind smile.

“Relax, mate. I just mean that… I know you were hesitant about taking this job, and I know that back at home you’ve been unhappy for a pretty long time,” Liam clears his throat before continuing, staring right into Louis. “But you’ve been so much happier out here. I’m glad that you’ve made a friend.”

Liam reaches over to give Louis’ shoulder a squeeze, which he supposes is meant to be a comforting gesture, but Louis is still hesitant to relax.

Liam’s acting weird, he can tell. The way he’s speaking, it’s almost as if he’s choosing his words before he says them, not wanting to scare Louis off. Like Liam’s trying to say something without actually saying it and Louis doesn’t like where this conversation is heading at all – what Liam might be implying.

“Yeah, I guess he’s a right laugh, the kid,” Louis chuckles nervously, before he shoots off his seat on the ground wraps his arm around Liam’s head in what hopefully comes across as a playful headlock, but it’s really just Louis way of deflecting attention. He squeezes Liam’s shoulder, and loudly teases him. “I haven’t forgotten about you, Payno, don’t worry. You’re still my number one.”

Liam’s face falls slightly. “No, that’s not what –“ He cuts himself off, shaking his head before smiling back at his friend. “Never mind. Let’s just get back to work.”  

Louis steadfastly ignores that the whole conversation even happened.

It’s later that evening, and Louis’ sipping from his pint from the bar of a Vegas nightclub, his back against the bartop as his eyes are glued to the dance floor only a few metres in front of him.

It all happens more often than it should.

In the months he’s been on the road, Louis’ come to the conclusion that he doesn’t even fucking like clubbing all that much. It’s hot and there are too many people who raise unimpressed eyebrows at his unkempt stubble and denim jacket and it’s the absolute worst to nurse a hangover from a moving bus.

He always tries to enjoy himself, even though it’s never a good time anymore that he comes slinking through velvet ropes for. It’s for him. It’s _always_ for him.

Just as everyone in their troupe has picked up on their budding status as a duo, it’s been made a habit to track down Louis for duty whenever Harry wants a night out.

After several nights of a bodyguard or a band member poking their heads in on the black bus after hours claiming, “Harry’s asking for you,” Louis ultimately decided to save everyone else the trouble and keep an eye on the rockstar himself.

And if he’s being honest, not that he’d ever share it, Louis doesn’t really trust anyone else to take care of Harry when he gets obliterated. Louis tends to ignore the part of his brain that shouts at him that his selfish ulterior motives are likely to blame.

This club is bigger than some of the others were – just like the one in Chicago had been but even more grand. Louis can’t count how many American bars and clubs he’s been to at this point, but despite some being nicer, cleaner, or more exclusive that others, they all have the essentials: booze, whatever drug of the night is, and women.

Louis’ grip tightens around his beer glass as he watches Harry dance around carelessly, his little harem of women circling around him, drawing in closer and closer.

The music overhead fades into the next song, and as soon as Louis hears opening notes and the twinkling of piano keys, he can’t help but laugh into his glass at the pure irony.

“ _I’m selfish, I know…but I don’t ever wanna see you with him…”_

He sees Harry’s eyes lighten at the recognition of his song, his girls squealing, crowding in even closer to him.

Louis doesn’t have to be doing this. He doesn’t have to be sitting alone, torturing himself while Liam’s out having a fag break, waiting for Harry to reach his alarmingly high limit so he can take him to bed. He doesn’t have to be, and yet he still does and he has no one to blame for his discomfort other than himself and his ridiculous, masochistic affliction.

_“I hope you can see the shape I’ve been in, while he’s touchin’ your skin…this thing upon me howls like a beast, you flower, you feast…”_

Thoughts of what Liam was saying to him earlier come back to him, and where he was at the beginning of the summer before all of this started and was only ever going through the motions of his life.

 _A roadie,_ he thinks to himself, almost bitterly. That’s all he’s supposed to be. That’s the offer that was made to him. And as scary as it was at first, it was the kind of adventurous life the old Louis never would have thought possible – spending the summer with his best mate out on the road in _America_ working for _Harry Styles._ It’s been the escape he’s needed before he has to back to gloomy London to finish his last year of uni, finally having to face the reality of not knowing what he’s going to do with with his life.

His thing for Harry, all it had ever been was a _fantasy._ All Harry was to him was this stunning, untouchable creature with a beautiful voice who lived on magazine covers and in myth.

Louis wasn’t supposed to get as close to Harry as Liam says they are.

He certainly isn’t supposed to fall in love him either.

_“Woman, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la…”_

Harry turns his head to his left then and across the room, meets Louis’ gaze. The grin that had been wide across his face slides away when Harry sees him, but he doesn’t look away immediately. He holds Louis’ stare, mouth fallen slightly ajar before he gulps. Louis follows the movement of Harry’s adam’s apple before returning to his eyes, where Harry is waiting for him. After a few moments, Harry shakes free from whatever drug-inflicted trance he must have been spaced out in and grabs the face of the nearest girl with both of his hands, planting a searing kiss on her lips.

Without a second thought, Louis turns around his stool and orders another drink, hoping to buzz away the ache in his heart, but stay relatively sober enough to do his self-appointed second job.

Sure enough, not an hour later Louis is pulling Harry away from undeserving hands and leading him with the help of Preston, one of the bodyguards, down the strip toward a car that’ll take them to Caesar’s Palace.

Harry and the band don’t usually stay in hotels since most nights between shows they’re all in the middle of nowhere, but when they play in a big city for more than one night – like the two nights they’re in Vegas – Paul puts them up in those fancy rooms with the champagne and the fluffy white dressing gowns.

Louis retraces his steps from memory and gets himself and Harry back to his ostentatious rooms in one piece and places a very out-of-it Harry on the massive white bed. He tucks Harry in with practiced resignation, hesitating only slightly as he steals one last look of him sleeping soundly. He darts back out to the car park and onto the bus, ripping off his denim jacket, kicking off his Chuck’s, and tucking himself in at last.

It happens more often than it should.

***

“Fuck, just look at it!”

It’s suddenly mid August and they’ve finally reached California.

Louis’ got himself right up against bus windows, staring out like a mesmerized child as they drive up Highway 1 along the coast, miles and miles of sandy beaches and palm trees stretching out into the distance.

“Have you never seen the ocean before?” Greg laughs from somewhere behind him.

“Not the Pacific.” Louis twists himself around to nudge Liam, who’s sitting on the bench beside him, in the chest. “You seein’ this, Payno?”

“Yeah, Lou. It’s fucking aces,” Liam grins, actually matching Louis’ own excitement over seeing the West Coast for the first time. He absent-mindedly scratches at one of his sideburns, watching the waves in wonderment.

You hear about the mystical land of Los Angeles all the time growing up in England, perhaps even spending a night or two dreaming about lounging under the warm sun and surfing with the most famous of stars, only to wake up to the sound of thunder and rain pattering against your rooftop.

Now Louis’ actually here. It’s not a dream.

The buses pull up to the famous Beverly Hills Hotel, parking along the tall, lush rows of green foliage.

They have the day off. As in, an actual full day to themselves, stationary in one place for more than a few hours at a time without having to rush to get ready for a show at the end of the day. The band doesn’t play until tomorrow night at the Troubadour, and apparently Harry has plans.

Louis can see Harry bounding over from the red bus from his spot by the window, the singer’s curls waving wildly behind him, so Louis isn’t thrown off guard by the loud noise he makes when Harry rips the bus door open.

“Afternoon, lads!” Harry greets the others brightly, before pointing to Louis. “You. Come, come.”

Harry turns around and leaves without waiting for Louis’ answer.

Louis strips out of his slightly smelly Velvet Underground shirt and replaces it with a clean, charcoal grey Doors one. He quickly laces up his Chucks and grabs his shades, the weather sunny enough to warrant leaving his denim jacket behind.

He waves goodbye to the lads, pointedly ignoring the careful way Liam’s gaze follows him as he leaves the bus. Harry, however, is nowhere to be found.

“H?” Louis calls out, spinning slightly around in a circle around himself. He _did_ tell Louis to follow him, though it isn’t out of the realm of possibility that the singer got too caught up in his head to realize that Louis hadn’t quite joined him yet.

Louis’ startled out of his wits at the sharp, loud, _HONK_ that sounds behind him. Louis turns around to face the street and there’s Harry, sitting pretty behind the wheel of a shining, banana yellow 1972 Ferrari Dino convertible.

“Hop in, Lou!”

“Harry… _what?_ ” Louis laughs in slight awe. “Where the fuck did this come from?”

“Had Paul rent it for the day,” Harry smiles, two cratered dimples appearing on either side. “C’mon, adventure’s calling.”

Louis can’t help but smile back at him.

He approaches the car with caution, well aware of the fact that he’s never been within touching range of an automobile this fancy or this expensive before. Back in London, it was public transportation or nothing and even before that, his mother had to make do carting around five small children in the back of a rusty old hatchback.

He pulls back the sparkling chrome handle and sits himself down on the buttery soft leather. Harry’s watching him, an amused smirk pulling at his lips at Louis’ heedfulness.

Louis raises an eyebrow at him in response. “Are you sure you can drive on this side of the road? Do you even _have_ a driver’s license?”

Harry giggles, reaching across Louis to open the glove department. He takes out a pack of cigs and a lighter. He takes one out and lights it up between his lips. Louis’ eyes narrow in at the way his plump lips mold themselves around the cigarette.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Harry turns the ignition and the car roars to life. He then swiftly steers them into the flow of traffic and they’re off.

Driving down the highway, the sun beaming down on them in a distinctly unique way that it must only save for California, the wind in his hair and Harry by his side – it is something Louis genuinely cannot describe.

He turns his head to the left to get a look at the boy and Louis is instantly warmer, a closed-lip smile growing. Harry’s dressed a bit more relaxed again today, just wearing a cream Pink Floyd t-shirt and a pair of pink corduroys. It’s fitting, Louis thinks, for where they are. They’ve not been in California more than a few hours, but from what Louis has noticed, time seems to pass a little slower here, its residents floating around all glowing and chilled-out. It must be all the Vitamin D.

Louis likes it here already.

And judging by the starry look in his eye, Harry does too.

The tall buildings of the city fade away into the distance and soon enough they see water again.

Louis’ eyes roll blissfully shut. He tips his head back onto the soft leather headrest and breathes in deeply the soothing, salty air.

There’s a thought that keeps trying to wriggle its way into Louis’ mind, one that he’s been fighting since they first drove past the “Welcome to California!” sign. California, while also the dream holiday, also means the last three shows of the tour. After back to back L.A. concerts, they’ll drive up to San Francisco and by the end of the week, they will all be on a plane back to London, and back to reality.

In just a few day’s time, there will be no more long bus rides with the lads, no more sore muscles from loading and unloading equipment. No more nights in random American clubs, no more screaming girls fucking up his eardrums.

No more tour and no more Harry. Vaguely, Louis always knew this isn’t forever, but he never… He never thought he’d have something to lose. These last few months of of tour while this _thing_ with Harry has unfolded, Louis’ gotten a better grasp of what the rockstar is really like as a person, stripped of all the lights and the glitter.

Harry is always in the _now,_ so grounded to the present moment. His thoughts and feelings are often fleeting and nothing ever really reaches past his surface level. And that is not even mentioning the short attention span that all the cocaine gives him.

Louis’ come to realize, with bittersweet clarity, his role in all this. He’s not foolish enough to believe that he’d be as familiar with Harry now as he would have been had Niall stuck around for the whole tour. Louis is a temporary fixation and he’s just been too selfish with Harry’s time to protect himself from the heartbreak he’s bound to nurse once he gets home. Who is to say Louis is anything other another one of Harry’s fleeting thoughts?

Realistically, the moment he and Liam step out of Heathrow, he’ll likely never see Harry again. Ordinary people like him don’t actually become friends with international superstars. Let alone anything… _more_ than that.

Louis opens his eyes and shakes his head, as if to physical shake the thoughts out like he’s got water in his ears.

“So where are you taking me?” Louis breaks the comfortable (presumably from Harry’s end at least) silence. He reaches over, poking Harry in the arm. “Do you even know where you’re going?”

Harry laughs, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to look back at Louis.

“Just wait. Patience is a virtue, Lou.”

Soon enough, Louis figures out where Harry is taking them. Louis turns his whole torso to face him, eyebrow raised half in concern, but mostly in surprise. A bout of excitement brews in his gut. It’s actually kind of a brilliant idea, if not completely stupid.

“Harry. How the fuck do you expect not to get noticed?” Louis asks incredulously, “Are you suicidal?”

Harry simply smirks, reaching a hand behind into the backseat. Louis laughs once he sees it, Harry extracting the cowboy hat he bought in Dallas, plopping it on his head and tucking his curls in.

“Worked pretty well last time, didn’t it darlin’?” Harry drawls, horrible attempt at a southern accent and all.

Louis shakes his head and covers his grin with the back of his hand in a poor attempt to cover the fondness that overwhelms him more and more with each passing second with this boy.

“You’re ridiculous, Hazza.”

Harry continues to fail their already terrible mission of trying not to draw too much attention to themselves as he tips his head back, screaming, “YEE-HAW!” at the top of his lungs in their bright yellow Ferrari.

Louis’ troubling thoughts subside for now as the two turn the corner, cruising their way down Santa Monica Boulevard.

After they park – a quite frankly hilarious endeavor that involved Louis getting out of the car to coach an adorably stressed Harry through parallel parking on the “wrong side of the road” – Harry insisted that they stop at a flea market that they come across on their way to the pier.

The market consisted of about seven or eight tented stalls, each one selling some sort of vintage or homemade relic. Harry eats it all up, passing from tent to tent with wide eyes, staring mesmerized at all the treasures and charming each of the vendors.

It’s kind of a magical thing to watch, Louis thinks, seeing Harry so enthralled, so in his element while the rest of the world spins on without him. Harry spends twenty minutes in particular at a stand selling ornate, sterling silver rings, no doubt looking for a few new pieces to add to his collection.

“What do you think, Lou?”

Harry picks out two different rings and slips them on his right middle and left ring fingers, the only digits save his thumbs that were previously left bare. He holds his hands up for Louis to see, spreading his fingers wide and giving them a little wiggle.

They’re both, honestly, very beautiful. The one he’s got on his right hand is a simple silver band with the word _peace_ carved delicately into it. The one he wears on his left hand – his wedding finger, Louis thinks briefly – is slightly more ornate, though not ostentatiously. It is a large, blooming rose, also made of silver. It reminds Louis of the beautiful, faded grey tattoo of a rose Harry also has on his forearm.

“I think they’re both lovely. They suit you,” Louis answers. He doesn’t hesitate before reaching out, stroking the rose gently with his thumb, his other fingers just barely hovering over the soft skin of Harry’s knuckles. “Especially this one.”

“Perfect,” Harry grins. His eyes don’t leave Louis as he speaks to the vendor and it sends a rippling chill down Louis’ spine. “I’ll have them both.”

Harry pulls out a handful American bills from his back pocket and pays for his new treasures. His eyes flicker back and forth from the ring selection to Louis.

“What do you say, Lou? Let me buy you one, too.”

Louis’ eyebrow shoots up. “You – you want to buy me a ring?”

“Yeah!” Harry exclaims, oblivious to the emergency bells he sets off in Louis’ mind. “Why not? I haven’t seen you pick up a single souvenir while we’ve been on the road. I can’t think of anything more special.”

Harry tugs gently on Louis’ wrist to bring him closer to the display. Louis looks down at the rows of shiny, expensive-looking pieces of metal, wary.

When a man buys a woman a ring, the meaning reads quite clearly in the gesture – asking to go steady, a romantic present, a proposal for _marriage._ Men don’t just gift other men jewelry, do they?

“I – I don’t know, H…”

“ _C’mon_ ,” Harry whines. He bats his eyes, Louis getting lost in the delicate way his dark, curled eyelashes dust his cheekbones. “Please?”

_For Heaven’s sake…_

Louis coughs, bringing the hand not currently in Harry’s grip to scratch at the back of his neck. “I don’t know, mate. Not sure I could quite pull it off like you do.” Which is true, actually. Louis hasn’t worn jewelry before, but also he’s sure it’ll do nothing for him other than make him look like a poof.

“Nonsense.” Harry turns his back toward the selection again. “No more stalling. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Harry plucks up two or three different options and assesses them carefully while biting his lip, turning his torso cheekily so Louis can’t see.

It’s a quick decision – no more than a minute – which surprises Louis. He’s seen the kid take almost twelve minutes just to _narrow down_ which ice cream flavour he wants (which almost always ends up being chocolate.)

Harry puts back the other two rings and grabs hold of Louis’ left hand. Louis all but gasps to himself as Harry slides the cool metal onto his middle finger.

It’s silver, just like the one’s Harry chose for himself. It’s smooth to the touch, curving around the base of his finger into a soft rectangle, with three, positively _radiant_ turquoise squares embedded in it.

It’s a stunning ring. Definitely one of the nicest things he’s ever worn.

He loves it immediately.

Louis looks up from his hand and is met with Harry’s knowing smirk.

“We’ll get this one, too,” Harry says to the clerk and hands her a few more bills.

Louis can’t say anything other than a small, weighted, “Thank you.”

The smile Harry returns him is almost enough to end Louis right then and there.

“You’re welcome, Louis.” Harry curls his own ringed fingers around the hand now adorned with turquoise and guides him further down the market, waving a hand in goodbye at the vendor behind them. “Now. Let’s move on before I spend my entire fortune on you.”

They make it almost all the way down the market, only stopping every now and then to take a look at something pretty. Harry doesn’t buy anything else until he catches sight of a beaded jacket that he nearly rips off the hanger.

“Lou! Just look at it, it’s so Stevie…”

Harry slips the jacket on and Louis will admit, it’s like the thing was designed just for him. It’s made of a deliciously soft-looking Bordeaux and gold velour, with a zipper down the front. The beaded details all over are what make the garment, however – silver glittering accents that remind Louis of exploding fireworks.

“Well, in that case, you _must_ get it, Harold,” Louis laughs.

Harry excitedly pays for his jacket, keeping it on as they finally make it out through the last of the tents.

“Aren’t you going to boil, H?” Louis asks, partly endeared at Harry’s insistence on wearing his new purchase, part legitimately concerned.

Harry shrugs. “Maybe. But in a cool way.”

Louis rightly cackles, eying Harry up and down, laughing at the pure ridiculousness that is this boy. With the jacket, and the Chucks, the pink corduroys, and the fucking cowboy hat – Harry _shouldn’t_ look cool. He shouldn’t be able to pull it off, and yet he does and Louis will probably never fully understand exactly how he does it. Honestly though, he doesn’t really mind.

As they walk closer to the chaos of the pier, becoming surrounded by more and more people, Louis figures it might actually be smart to have Harry wearing the jacket. Without his trademark hair and tattoos to gawk at, Harry could pass off as just another oddly-dressed Californian fellow, as long as Louis keeps others from getting too close.

“What shall we do first then, Harold?” Louis gestures to the pier in front of them, games, rollercoasters, and greasy food just waiting for them.

Harry’s shit-eating grin doesn’t leave him as he races straight toward the first ride he sees, Louis hot on his heels.

Louis’ having a fucking blast, perfectly content to let Harry take the reins of the day. He hasn’t seen the singer’s smile drop once and there’s a niggling feeling in his gut that Harry doesn’t have the freedom to do this often – to just go buckwild, without a care in the world about what you’ve been doing and who might see you doing it.

They jump from ride to ride, narrowly losing Harry’s hat pretty much every single time. Louis suggests they stick it to his head with chewing gum. He’s met with an ice cream cone to the nose.

They try their hands at a couple of game stations, where Harry wins at every single one they stop at. Harry’s just hit the highest score in the ring toss when Louis gives up, releasing an exasperated groan.

“I swear to God, you’re cheating!” Louis jams a finger square into Harry’s chest, eliciting a giggle out of him. “How is it that you’re so good at everything?”

Harry raises his hands in surrender, laughing. “I’m not, I promise!”

“It’d be annoying if you weren’t so bloody charming,” Louis says, before he realizes what’s come out of his mouth.

He’s saved the embarrassment of having to backtrack when the bored teenager running the ring toss station asks Harry which prize he wants.

“I get a prize? Really?” Harry’s eyes brighten as he looks up at the assortment of goodies hanging along the wall.

Louis bites down on the inside of his cheek.

_He’s so fucking cute._

“Yeah,” the teenager snaps his gum.

“I’ll take that one, please,” Harry politely asks, pointing up at one of the stuffed teddy bears in the top corner. It’s fairly small, just like one you’d find in a child’s pram, and white, adorned with its own miniature pair of blue and green striped dungarees.

The teen steps on a stool to retrieve it before lazily handing the bear over to Harry.

“Thanks, mate!”

The teen mumbles a “you’re welcome,” before going back to flipping through a magazine.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself a new bus buddy,” Louis says as they walk away from the games, playfully pinching the bear’s white, fluffy ear.

“No, _you_ do.” Harry places the bear in Louis’ hands.

“What? Harry…”

“Really, I want you to have him…”

Louis opens his mouth to protest, to tell Harry that it was _his_ prize, not to mention the fact that men _don’t_ give away their carnival prizes to other men, least of all little stuffed bears wearing dungarees.

But, of course, the playful pout on Harry’s lips shuts him up.

“Erm, okay… Thanks, Hazza.”

“Bitchin’,” Harry smiles. “Now, let’s take our new friend on the Ferris wheel.

Louis raises his eyebrow. “ _Bitchin’?_ ”

“What? That’s what they say ‘round here.”

It’s as they’re walking toward the huge Ferris wheel at the end of the pier when Louis sees the stand. He immediately stops Harry, grabbing onto his forearm.

“Wait! You go get in line, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Harry looks at him confused for a moment, but doesn’t question him, continuing on to get them a place in line.

Louis makes sure Harry can’t see him anymore before rushing over to the stand, getting in the back of the small queue.

He taps his foot impatiently, uncomfortable with leaving Harry all alone for too long in such a crowded place.

“Two, please,” Louis rushes out when it’s his turn, handing the the vendor some of his cash.

And really, Louis wishes he’d had a camera to document the look on Harry’s face when he sees the treats in Louis’ hands.

“Are those –“

“Here you are, Harold,” Louis proudly grins as he slides in line next to Harry. “Your very first churro.”

Louis hands him one, and expects him to go ahead and take a bite. Harry instead holds up the warm pastry to his nose and inhales deeply, his eyes rolling dramatically into the back of his head.

“ _Louis…_ ” Harry practically moans, his mouth parting open slightly. It’s entirely embarrassingly how quickly it went to Louis’ groin, the way Harry said his name like that. “It smells exactly like my candles. Just like you said.”

Louis clears his throat, stepping awkwardly from side to side to adjust himself in his slightly-tighter trousers.

“Of course, don’t you know? I know everything. Now c’mon, don’t dawdle. Give it a taste.”

Harry doesn’t waste any more time, taking a rather large bite, tongue sticking straight out.

Maybe Louis didn’t think this through entirely.

For some unknown, obscene reason, Harry Styles eats tongue-first. No matter what he’s snacking on – sandwiches, cereal, and dear god, those bloody _bananas_ – Harry’s tongue stretches out to meet the food before the rest of his mouth gets ahold of it, like an uncaring, aloof giraffe.

Now here he is again, going ham on the churro, another dreadfully phallic looking treat.

Harry’s moaning pleasure gets even louder as he chews, clearly enjoying himself, and Louis is going to fucking die, that’s what.

He ducks his face down to hide his newly beet-red skin tone, trying to focus on absolutely anything else – his nan, dying puppies, Vietnam footage. He stares down at his shoes and succeeds fairly well in calming himself down, distractedly chewing on his own churro.

“Lou, I’m only eating churros for the rest of my life,” Harry says, finally forming real words instead of boner-threatening moans.

Louis covers his lips as he laughs, his own mouth full of pastry.

Harry looks so innocently adorable, with cinnamon-sugar dusting the sides of his mouth.

Without thinking, Louis reaches out and uses his thumb to gently wipe the sugar clean. Harry follows the motion with his eyes, meeting with Louis’, when Louis freezes.

“I’m – I’m sorry. That was weird…” Louis stutters.

_You fucking idiot. What the actual fuck?_

But Harry just smiles, unbothered. If anything he looks a little…pleased?

_I swear to God you’re going mental._

“It’s okay. Am I good now?”

Louis clears the tickle in his throat. “Yeah, yeah. All good, erm, what shall we call this lad, then?” Louis holds up the bear between them, desperately trying to move on.

Harry furrows his brow in contemplation, pinching his bottom lip as he does so often. He looks a bit like a disgruntled frog. It makes Louis giggle at the singer’s mock-seriousness.

“Stop laughing, Lou. This is a very tough decision. He’ll be stuck with his name for the rest of his life. What if he doesn’t like it?”

“He’s a stuffed bear, Harry.”

“I’m not sure I see your point.”

Louis rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance, but his grin gives him away. “Well, name him whatever you want. I’m rubbish at that sort of thing. Think the last stuffed bear I had, just named him Beary.”

“A perfectly respectable moniker, in my opinion.”

Louis laughs.

Harry takes the bear from Louis and gives it a good look, eying the stuffed animal up and down as if he was looking for some clue to crack the toy-naming code.

It’s so funny how serious Harry takes things like this. He’s this mega-star, who has thousands of pounds in his pockets and has the world as his feet, girls and drugs orbiting around him at the sound of a snap. And yet, he finds such simple joy in naming a stuffed bear that he won in a game of ring toss.

And then gifted to Louis.

His heart swells.

“Patrick,” Harry finally decides, just in time to reach the front of the queue. “Here, hold him.” Harry hands the bear – _Patrick_ – back to Louis while he pays for their tickets.

They sit down on the small bench, Harry’s legs so long that they hang below. The vendor buckles them in and moves on to the next people in line. They raise up just slightly in the air.

“Why Patrick?” Louis asks, as they slowly rise up higher and higher. He’s never been on a Ferris wheel before, but he never really imagined them being this slow. It’s actually just a lot of sitting.

Harry shrugs his shoulders. “Never met a Patrick before.”

They fall into a peaceful silence until they finally reach the very top. Their bench stops.

Louis wonders how odd they must look from down below. Most of the people in line were couples, and here are the two of them – grown men, one of them clutching a stuffed bear and the other wearing a cowboy hat.

Then, for a moment, Louis doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what it might look like because _this is nice_. It’s nice, sitting so close to Harry, feeling the heat of his body directly to his right, the cooling sea breeze on his face, overlooking a beautiful blue ocean that never ends.

Louis almost wants nothing more than to lace his fingers through Harry’s and never leave. He almost does it, too.

“Just incredible, isn’t it, Lou?” Harry breaks the silence, just barely a whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

Louis turns his head to look at him. Harry’s facing forward, lips slightly parted, mesmerized by the view in front of him. Louis knows what he’s seeing, he knows what’s out there. But now, Louis can’t look away from Harry if he tried.

“Yeah, it is.”

After the ferris wheel, and a couple more churros each, the sun starts to set.

They leave the pier and head down to the water, walking a bit further down the beach to a less crowded area, where they plop down on the cool sand to watch the sky chase the sun away and come down from their sugar highs.

Louis, quite frankly, can’t think of ever having a better day in his life than he has today.

“I spoke too soon. ‘M never having another churro again,” Harry half-groans, half-laughs as he keeps a hand spread over his stuffed belly, wiggling his now bare feet in the sand.

Louis strips off his own shoes, sighing contently at the relief it brings and places them next to Harry’s.

Harry lets out a breathy chuckle. “I can’t believe we got away with it. Not one person recognized me.”

“I reckon it’s the hat, Harold,” Louis playfully reaches out and flips the brim upward slightly, now askew off the side of his forehead. “Your lucky disguise.”

Harry laughs. “Suppose I don’t need it much now.”

He’s right. It’s getting dark and this part of the beach is deserted.

It feels weird. Maybe not weird, but, suddenly very quiet. Still. Like he and Harry are the only two people left in the city.

Harry takes off his hat and sets it next to Patrick and their shoes. His curls tumble down, now set free. He combs his fingers through the strands, failing to tame them before he lets them fall gently onto his shoulders.

Louis leans back on his hands, following the way the waves crash into one another, foaming white against the sand. Now that the sun’s almost gone, it’s a bit chillier. Perhaps Harry was right to leave his jacket on.

“I really love it here.”

Louis breathes in deep through his nose, taking in the Pacific mist. “Yeah, me too.”

“I can see myself living here.” Harry’s voice is deep and soothing, and a little bit hoarse. “I can picture it. A big house, with lots of windows in every room, right on the water. Or surrounded by trees. A piano in the living room.”

“Mmm,” Louis hums in agreement. He can see it, too. Harry taking nightly walks down his beach. Maybe with a dog. Maybe with his hair all the way down to his third and fourth nipples and a joint between his teeth.

His heart constricts when his when his mind wanders further – Harry and his dog and his joint and there’s a girl on his arm. And they look happy. Healthy. Peaceful, even.

“You’d come visit me, right?”

Louis opens his eyes, turning to find Harry’s on him, questioning.

“What?”

“If I bought that house here,” Harry elaborates, “with the windows and the piano. Would you visit me?”

Louis opens his mouth but he doesn’t know what to say. Is Harry being hypothetical? Would he actually leave London to come stay in California?

More than just that, is there some sort of future Harry’s alluding to – a future, after tour, where Harry would still want Louis around?

“You’d want _me_ to come visit you?” Louis’ unable to wrap his brain around the idea that he might be more than a current fascination to Harry.

Harry shrugs his shoulders, suddenly drawn into himself. He chips away at the polish on one of this thumbs.

“Not sure who else would.”

Louis’ brow furrows, even more confused.

“What are you talking about? You always have people –“ _hanging around you,_ “– wanting to talk to you?”

Harry snorts. “No one interesting. No one real.”

Louis’ breath catches slightly, two thoughts quickly forming. The first, is that he now knows that Harry is self aware. At least, he realizes the fallacy of his world and the people in it – but he still lets it happen?

His second thought? _I am. I’m real._

“What about Niall?”

Hearing his best friend’s name puts a small smile on Harry’s face, but it’s gone just as soon.

“I love it when I get to see Niall for longer than, like, a few hours at a time…” Harry lifts his head to watch the water. “Since my career’s kind of, picked up I guess, I hardly get to see him. Always jetting off somewhere important, doing all that professional manager stuff.”

It’s there, fairly clearly, in his voice. The slight resentment Harry carries with him. Not at Niall – but his fame.

“What about your family?”

The polish on his thumb is all the way gone now. The question goes unanswered.

Louis’ whole chest tightens, his heart throbbing as he pictures a sad, quiet, and maybe hungover Harry Styles, sitting at his piano in his house with all the windows, all alone.

“Harry,” Louis starts, before he thinks better of it. “Are you lonely?”

Harry turns to Louis, his eyes wide, intense, boring right into Louis’ own.

“Yeah. I am.”

Harry’s honesty strikes right through Louis.

Harry holds his gaze as long as he can before _it_ takes over. Louis sees it immediately, recognizes the sharp intake of his breath, the tremble of his hands.

Harry shifts away again, patting his pockets. He pulls out his crumpled box of fags and lights one between his lips.

Harry does this – another one of those things Louis’ noticed about Harry. Cigarettes become a crutch when he’s too far away to scratch the itch for cocaine.

“Is that your reason for all the drugs?”

Louis blurts it out, word vomit sparked by those damn cigarettes, and he regrets it immediately.

Harry’s posture stiffens, his hand pausing halfway toward a drag.

“Fuck,” Louis swears, dragging a frustrated hand down his face. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

Harry eyes him, a wayward strand of hair blows across his forehead with the wind. Along with it, the smell of the smoke settles across Louis’ skin, his eyes stinging just slightly.

Harry’s silent a long time, his face unreadable as he studies Louis. There’s a lump in Louis’ throat and he knows he fucked up, but Harry isn’t _saying anything._ He’s staring, intense, and maybe a little calculative and Louis needs to know if this is the part where Harry tells him to fuck off for good.

Louis plays anxiously with the ring on his finger.

“My father is a preacher.”

_What?_

“What?” Louis voices aloud.

Harry raises a brow. “You asked about my family.”

Louis’ mouth gapes slightly, fish-mouthed, and thrown off. For some reason, Harry’s now giving Louis access to his brain and he suddenly feels like he doesn’t really deserve it. His selfish curiosity gets the better of him.

Louis closes his mouth and nods, a silent ‘ _continue’._ He listens.

Harry clears his throat. He doesn’t look at Louis as he talks. The ocean, a more favourable witness to whisper secrets to.

“My father’s a preacher. The only preacher in the small village where I grew up, in Cheshire. I spent every Sunday in that little church since before I could even hold a spoon. Sometimes Fridays and Saturdays too, volunteering for some community outreach. For so long, it had been such a huge part of my life. Even now, I guess, it still holds a small part of me.”

Louis thinks of Harry’s hand. The cross tattoo. The silver pendant resting on his chest.

“It was pretty early on I suppose, my dad… _seeing_ things. Things in me that he didn’t like.”

Louis nails dig deep into his skin.

“I cried too much. I walked funny. I wanted a Sindy doll for my birthday when all the other, more sensible boys wanted Action Men and Dinky Toys. And then, there was the singing. _Quit it with all that wailing, Harry,_ ” he animated, eyes dark.

“It seemed no matter what I did, he’d get angry with me, send me to my room with my Bible, telling me not to come out until I learned something. He never even told me what lessons I was meant to be looking for. When the singing didn’t stop, he gave up and let me lead the church choir. Which I loved, actually. For a while, it was enough.

“It was enough until it wasn’t. See, my father would only ever allow religious music in the house. I couldn’t sing anything unless it was a hymn. But there was this whole world of music, a _revolution_ just out of my reach and I couldn’t stand not to be a part of it.”

Harry pauses, his next sentence caught in his throat. A shaky breath slips past his lips. Louis wants to reach out, hold his hand.

“One afternoon, a Sunday, just a few weeks before I turned eighteen, my dad confronted me in one of the back rooms of the church, right before the morning sermon. He’d found my stash of records that I’d hidden under my bed, as well as some… other things. Beatles, Elton, Little Richard, Elvis, Simon and Garfunkel, _good music._ But he didn’t care. He screamed at me. Telling me every which way, up, down, and sideways, every reason that I was going to hell and that I wasn’t the son he raised. And I yelled back. I told him that I was leaving, that me and Niall were going to London and that I was going to be a star. He laughed in my face, said he didn’t believe me. So I left. Right then, I left. I went home, packed up my things and told Niall I wanted to go. I had never missed church before.”

Harry finished picking all the polish off the other thumb. “I’ve seen him only once in two years.”

He falls silent, the sounds of distant laughter and waves and seagulls filter through Louis’ ears again.

Louis takes another chance and speaks. “What about your mum?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “She left both of us when I was four months old. She didn’t want me either.”

He thinks about his own indestructible love for his mother. He can’t imagine a world in which he didn’t have her. Worse, a world in which she rejected him.

Harry startles him, as a sharp, bitter, almost self-deprecating laugh comes out of him.

“Well, joke’s on them now, huh? Now everybody wants me.”

Louis’ never quite felt his heart break for someone else before. He really fucking hates it.

“Harry…”

“They don’t tell you what fame is really like before you have it,” he barrels on. “They don’t tell you how lonely you can still be under a spotlight in a room filled with people screaming your name. Or that you have to question almost every interaction with someone, wondering if they’re really there for _you_ or your status, your money, your booze. I don’t regret leaving home. I don’t regret the life I’ve made exactly. I guess – I guess I just wish I would’ve known what to prepare for.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Louis asks.

Harry stubs out his long forgotten cigarette in the sand, but holds onto the butt, probably so as to not litter. Louis sings a silent victory when he doesn’t light another one.

“Because you’re my friend. And you asked.”

It’s dark now, the chill of the sea at night night settling in. The pier is still lit though, so it can’t be too late. This afternoon now feels like a different day entirely, the air around them much heavier than it’s ever been between them.

“The drugs,” Harry says, finally addressing it. “I remember my first real gig I got in London. The place was small, so instead of cash they paid me in coke and it’s something that stuck, I guess.” Harry breathes, trying to find his words. “It - they make my head feel less like a prison. That’s what it can feel like sometimes, up there. When I’m high, I can be me. Or, at least, the version of me I wish I could be.”

_You wish you could be wasted, blacked out of your mind all the time? Sloppy, sometimes not remembering the night before? Dirty, constantly felt up by greedy women who don’t actually give a shit about you? That’s who you want to be?_

That’s what Louis wants to ask. He doesn’t.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” Is what he asks instead. “It’s dangerous.”

Harry finally returns Louis’ gaze. He doesn’t answer the question.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

Louis sighs, suddenly frustrated. “Because I _care,_ Harry.” Louis exhales, more gently, “Because I’m your friend. You just said so.”

The corners of Harry’s mouth turn up just enough for it to count as a smile. Louis returns it.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Harry says after a moment. “It’s mostly just a bit of fun. I’m always fine.”

Louis would beg to differ. “Harry, you aren’t impervious to risk. Think of - of Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones –“

“It’s not like that with me, though,” Harry interrupts. “They all died from heroin. That’s one thing I’ve never done.”

Louis stops to think. In all the times he’s caught Harry in the act, or heard stories, or carried him home, it’s been cocaine. It’s been alcohol, pills. LSD once. He’s never walked in on Harry with a needle in his arm. Why, though?

“Why?” Louis, voicing his thoughts. “How is it any different than what you _have_ done? I promise I’m not judging you, I’ll never judge you for anything. I’m just trying to understand.”

Harry’s voice is low and scarily even. “Because I’ve heard things about heroin. Seen them. It’s what you take when you start not to care whether you live or die.”

Louis holds Harry’s eyes, not willing to stray from the green. He wants to see the truth in them. “And do you care? Whether you live or die?”

Harry swallows. He doesn’t look away from Louis, but Louis can tell that he almost wants to.

“Like I said. I’ve never done it before.”

It’s not really the answer Louis was looking for.

“I – I’m not your keeper, alright? I’m your friend, but I can’t tell you what to do. All I can do is help you. I want to help you. Just, please, be careful.”

Harry, in an obvious attempt to suddenly stray from the seriousness of the conversation, busts out his cheeky smirk. He gives Louis a wink, dimple on full display. “Only for you.”

Louis guesses he’ll take it. For now.

They sit there for another few minutes, the silence a little more comfortable now. Louis still can’t help but think through everything that Harry just confessed to him. Something that he said sticks out to him though and it doesn’t sit right in his stomach to not say anything.

“Harry, I owe you an apology.”

Harry frowns. “What for?”

“What you were saying earlier. About never knowing if the people in your life are really there for you. That everyone always just sees you as a rockstar, a commodity.” Louis shakes his head. He can’t believe he’s confessing this, but barely anything he’s ever said has felt as important as this. He needs Harry to know.

“I might as well have been one of those people. Before I met you, before I started working for you, I was your fan. I mean, I still am, I guess you would say, I love your music. What I’m trying to say is that I bought in to all the things those stupid media people were selling. I saw you on magazine covers and posters and thought, _wow, look at that beautiful superhuman of a person._

“That day, the day I came into your dressing room and Niall was there, I had no idea how to talk to you. All I could think about was how beautiful Harry Styles was in person. But you’re so much more than just your face or your voice. I’m sorry I wasn’t real with you. I was no better than any of those other people who didn’t want Just Harry.”

It all comes out like word vomit. It’s ineloquent and his teeth are fucking chattering but he feels better after saying it.

“No, no, no, Lou,” Harry shakes his head vigorously. He shifts his whole torso toward Louis, scooting closer. Louis holds his breath as Harry brushes his hair out of his eyes, his hand settling on his jaw, just below his ear. “I didn’t mean you when I said that. Never you. From the moment I met you, I’ve only ever felt like Just Harry.”

Louis giggles softly at Harry’s use of his own words. His face feels hot underneath Harry’s touch. “For the record, two seconds later when you shoved those candles up my nose, I’ve only ever wanted to know Just Harry. Churro-eating, Bambi-legged, cowboy hat-wearing, Just Harry.”

Harry cackles, the light coming back to him for the first time since they sat down on the sand. But when his laughter dies down, the way that he looks at Louis, it overwhelms him beyond description.

“My, my, my,” Harry says, just barely above a whisper. “Louis Tomlinson. What a sweet creature you are.”

Louis’ heart could burst out of his chest, it’s beating so fast.

_I want to kiss you. Please, let me kiss you._

The second he thinks it, Louis freezes. He remembers where they are. Even though it’s dark, they’re still in public. And it’s very much still Harry who, despite everything he’s learned about the boy in the last hour or so, hasn’t proved to Louis to be anything other than heterosexual.

He’s only just got confirmation about their friendship. He’s not going to ruin it.

Louis clears his throat and leans away. Harry’s smile falls just a little, almost reluctantly taking his hand away from Louis’ face.

“Erm, it’s getting late,” Louis laughs awkwardly. “Paul’s probably wondering where we are by now. We should get you back to the hotel.”

“Right,” Harry’s voice breaks slightly, leaning in to cough into his fist just as awkwardly.

They stand up and dust the sand off themselves and pick up their shoes and hats and furry friends.

Louis wraps his arms tight around himself as they walk back toward the car, attempting to protect his skin from any more goose pimples.

Harry notices and frowns, quickly stripping off his jacket to hand to Louis.

“No, no, Haz. I’m fine,” Louis protests.

Harry looks at him for a second before shrugging, smiling casually. “Maybe I just want to see what you look like in sparkles. Humour me? I’ll hold Patrick.”

Louis laughs, but doesn’t argue. He won’t admit to the soothing warmth he feels once he slides the jacket on. It already smells like Harry.

They reach the car and just before Harry opens his door, he looks to Louis.

“So listen. I’m doing this photo shoot for _Rolling Stone_ in the morning in Malibu. Would you want to come chill out with me on set? Before you have to start setting up for the show?”

Louis doesn’t have to think about his answer. “Yes, I’d love to.”

***

Who knew photo shoots could take so damn long?

Harry had popped his head into the black bus at 7:30 in the morning and dragged Louis out to the Ferrari, dangling the enticing image of complimentary breakfast once they arrive to set.

They drove up Highway 1 to Malibu, pulling up to a gated residence along a row of beach houses. Louis instantly thought about the previous night and Harry’s dream house on the water with all the windows.

The second they pulled down the driveway, a flurry of overly-made up people came flooding out the front door and whisked Harry away and Louis hasn’t seen him since.

That was nearly three hours ago.

Louis spent his time eating his weight in croissants and fruit from the craft services table and wandering aimlessly around the house rented for the shoot, trying to stay out of everyone’s way.

He definitely feels out of place. The crew obviously didn’t expect Harry to show up with a stowaway, given the curious and fairly unamused looks he kept receiving all morning.

_Maybe I should just go…_

Louis steps out onto the back terrace, the view absolutely unreal. A large, glistening infinity pool disappearing over the edge, as if the water feeds itself into the sea below.

“Hey, there you are.”

Louis jumps in his skin, turning around to find Harry giggling at him. He doesn’t seem to notice the way Louis’ eyes bug out at the sight of him.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Harry apologizes. When he finally catches Louis staring, his eyes fall to his feet, the faintest hint of a blush colouring his cheek. Or, is that makeup? Louis can’t quite tell. “Yeah, I know. It is a bit… _much_ for this hour.”

The wardrobe ladies have got Harry in a pair of skintight, onyx, textured leather trousers. They sit high around his slender waist, a complicated lace-up detail traveling all the way up until just below the butterfly tattooed on his stomach. The laces continue down the outside of Harry’s mile-long legs, the ends of the ties fringed out long and tangling themselves atop his bare feet – a hazard, really, knowing Harry.

And that’s it. That’s all he’s wearing.

His eyes are lined with smudged charcoal and his hair falls down over his shoulders, parted down the middle, looking agonizingly soft.

“Jesus, Styles,” Louis chokes out, laughing. He’s thankful for the slight ocean breeze cooling the back of his neck. “Can you even walk in those things?”

Harry cackles. “Hardly. God forbid I need a wee later. Might need someone to help me.”

Louis laughs, but doesn’t answer, angling his face toward the water so Harry can’t see the flush that image gave him.

In his periphery, Louis can see Harry slide up next to him. “Sorry, Lou. Can’t imagine how bored you’ve been.”

“Not that bored,” Louis lies.

“I’m glad you came though.”

Harry’s voice is quiet. There’s something off about him – more reserved than he was this morning before they left.

Louis offers him a smile, gently bumping him in the hip, which pulls a soft laugh from Harry. “’Course Curly. You asked.”

Harry looks at him, a spark of something present in his eyes. He opens his mouth to reply, when an older man in a velvet orange blazer and an ascot appears, pulling Harry down toward the pool area, where several cameras and lights are set up in the grass.

“Come, come, Mr. Styles. We’re ready for you!” The man says.

As he’s dragged away, Harry calls over his shoulder back to Louis. “Come watch, Lou!”

“I’m coming, H.” Louis grins back at him.

 _Finally,_ Louis thinks to himself.

Louis had thought before when Harry invited him that it would be fun to watch Harry get his pictures taken. He thought back to all the posters he’d seen Harry’s face on, wondering what it must be like to be doing exactly this; chillin’ out on some fabulous location, getting a behind-the-scenes look at all the magic, rather than having come across the final product in a magazine somewhere like everybody else will.

Louis decides quickly that he kind of hates it. More specifically, he hates having to watch how progressively dead Harry looks in the eyes as time goes on.

“Gorgeous, baby! Chin up, Harry, darling. Over here,” the photographer shouts at him from behind the camera. “Stunning, isn’t he ladies?”

Louis grits his teeth, doing his best to contain the bile threatening to come his throat.

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his crouched pose by the edge of the pool. Louis’ surprised, not that he isn’t a little pleased, that no one has given him anything yet. Maybe even more surprised that Harry himself hasn’t asked for anything.

Harry’s only been shooting for half an hour when one of the assistants comes tapping on his shoulder.

“Your ride is here to take you to the venue,” he huffs, too engrossed in the stack of papers in his hand to even look up at Louis.

“What? Already?”

“Uh huh. Van’s out front.” The assistant walks away without another word.

Louis turns back over to Harry, looking nothing short of miserable. He really doesn’t want to leave him alone with these people, pulling at him, buttering him up with shallow compliments and fake smiles.

Louis curses under his breath. He really does have to go. The drive back to West Hollywood itself is about an hour and that’s without accounting for traffic.

Louis reluctantly makes his way back toward the house, figuring he’ll see Harry again before he goes on stage. He doesn’t think the people here would appreciate him interrupting everything just to say goodbye.

Harry, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care. He does it for him.

“Lou?” Harry calls after him. He stands up, the tight leather of his trousers audibly squelching. “Where are you going?”

Louis hears the exasperated sigh of the photographer, gazing from Harry to Louis with an annoyed expression. Apparently it’s Louis’ fault anyway.

“I’m sorry, Haz. They’ve come to get me. I gotta head over to start setting up now.”

Harry frowns, but doesn’t say anything. He fiddles timidly with the laces on his pants, blinking at Louis.

Louis feels a bit helpless. “You’ll come find me later? Before the show starts?”

After a beat, Harry nods.

Louis still doesn’t leave, just stands in place until the photographer deigns enough of his time has been wasted. He’s shooed away, finally heading up the steps to get in the van. In the distance, he can hear the distinct clicking of the camera again.

“You’re a natural Harry! The camera loves you!”

Harry doesn’t find him later. He locks himself in his dressing room until showtime.

***

After the show, Louis and Liam sink themselves down on the plush seats of the black bus, drinking beers and passing a bag of crisps back and forth.

Greg, Sandy, and the rest of the boys headed out to the bars to celebrate the first night in LA. They’d been invited of course, but after this morning, Louis’ felt off and weirdly anxious, the anxiety worsening when Harry refused to let anyone in his dressing room before the show and immediately returned back to the hotel after the last song.

Liam, the loveliest lad in the world, chose to stay behind to keep Louis company. It is really nice, actually, to chill out with Liam again, just the two of them. Louis feels guilty about how little they’ve seen of each other, even living in such close quarters as they are.

“It’s almost like we’re back in our flat,” Liam comments, mouth full of crisps, voicing Louis’ thoughts. “Smells just as bad, even.”

Louis snorts behind his bottle, wiping away some dribbled beer off his chin with the back of his hand.

“I just can’t believe it, mate,” Liam says, starry-eyed. “We just fucking worked a show at _the_ Troubadour. I reckon I can die happy now.”

Louis shakes his head in mutual disbelief. Being a roadie was never really a dream of his like Liam, but he also can’t even begin to describe much his life has changed in such a short amount of time. The things he’s seen, the people he’s met…

_Harry._

It leaves him a bit breathless thinking about it. He doesn’t want it to end.

After joking around for a little while, even an impromptu wrestling match for the last crisp (Liam winning, the jacked bastard) they fall into a comfortable silence. Louis leans his head back against the window, closing his eyes. He sighs, content, smiling to himself as he starts to relax, just him and his best mate.

He’s on the brink of falling asleep when Liam breaks the silence, his voice even and calm.

“That’s a nice ring.”

Louis’ eyes flick open. Liam’s staring at him, not unkindly, though his face more or less unreadable. Louis looks down at his left hand where it lies flat against his stomach, the three turquoise stones on full display.

Liam knows Louis doesn’t wear jewelry. He knows it’s something he would never buy for himself. Liam also knows someone who _does_ wear a lot of jewelry, rings in particular. Someone Louis’ been spending all his free time with instead of with his mates.

Louis fucking knew it. He knew how it would look, having Harry buy him this stupid, beautiful ring. It suddenly burns his skin, Louis itching to rip it off his finger and pretend it was never there in the first place, that maybe Liam will forget he ever saw it.

He wants to, but – he can’t. He fucking _can’t._ Louis’ anxiety returns, much more powerful than before.

Louis tries to swallow the rock back down his throat. “Liam –“

A pounding knock sounds on the door, silencing him. They both turn their heads to watch Paul let himself in, his tired and annoyed eyes immediately finding Louis.

“He’s whinging for you.”

Louis inwardly groans. He’s hit with a myriad of emotions all at once: relief, for being saved from having to explain himself about the ring. Concern, about what’s gone wrong with Harry this time, Louis mentally cataloguing all the things he could have taken in the time he stepped offstage. And guilt, again, for having to choose between Liam and Harry.

Louis looks helplessly to Liam, who is already patiently waiting for him.

“Go, Lou,” Liam says, easily.

Louis runs an anxious hand through his fringe. “I’m sorry –“

“Louis,” Liam interrupts, his tone firm, but gentle. His big brown eyes are boring right through Louis, full of intent, as if Liam is trying to convey a message to Louis that he’s just not able to understand. “Don’t overthink it. Just go.”

They way his best mate smiles at him, encouragingly nodding his head toward the door and an impatient Paul, eases the tension in Louis shoulders.

Louis gulps, then finally nods. “Thank you.”

Liam laughs, leaning over to ruffle Louis’ hair. Louis stands up and out of his reach, laughing away one anxiety. He’s left with the other festering as he follows Paul out the bus and through to the hotel lobby.

It’s by far one of the fanciest hotels Louis’ ever stepped foot in and if it weren’t for the fact that he was with Paul, who the hotel staff all seems to know, he’d probably be out on his arse before he could even dirty the elevator doors with his oily fingertips.

Louis’ led to the fourth floor, stopping in front of room 422. His sign isn’t hung up on the door, which Louis finds curious, questioning if this is even the right room at all. Faintly, Louis can hear music playing on the other side of the wall.

Paul opens the door for him and Louis sighs at the picture before him.

The room is less thrashed than he anticipated, but it is quite the mess – the bed sheets fallen to the floor, pillows strewn all over the place. Open bottles and white powder dusting the little golden bar cart in one of the corners of the large, posh room. It’s dim in the room, only two small table lamps giving the space a soft, yellow light.

Then there’s Harry, blissed out and dancing around in not-quite circles, just barely mumbling along with the words to _Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds_ , playing from Harry’s turntable. He’s stumbling, though remarkably still on his own two feet. He’s got half his suit still on, his boots and velvet blue jacket spread out on the carpet, while his shirt hangs untucked and unbuttoned, slipping down slightly on one shoulder.

Louis clears his throat to get his attention.

Harry lifts his head, blowing strands of curls out of his face before breaking out into a sloppy grin.

“Lou-ee, baby! You’re here!”

Louis blanches at the pet name. He turns around to Paul standing by the door, seemingly unbothered. He shrugs, nodding his head toward Harry behind him.

“Sober him up, please. I don’t want him vomming his voice raw before the show tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “I got it.”

Satisfied with that, Paul leaves them alone, shutting the door behind him.

Louis’ body tenses when he feels a pair of strong arms wrap around his stomach from behind. Harry’s close, close enough that Louis can feel the heat of his body running up his spine. Harry tucks his face into the side of Louis’ neck and he feels like he’s on fucking fire, his heart about ready jump right out of his chest.

They’ve never… _touched_ liked this before. Hugging, yes, but never…

This is intimate. Dangerously intimate, just how close Harry’s lips are to his skin. Forbidden.

_He’s fucked up. He’s just really fucked up._

Louis walks out of Harry’s grip, despite desperately wanting to live in his arms, pivoting around to face him and assess the damage. Harry doesn’t back up though, he’s right there, inches away from Louis’ face, smirking playfully down at him with a sparkle in his blown out eyes.

“Haz, what’ve you taken?”

Harry ignores him, instead diving back into him, throwing his arms tightly around his shoulders. Louis stumbles backward, struggling to support the weight of both of them.

“I missed you so much. You went away.”

“I’m – I’m sorry. I didn’t want to go.”

“’S so fake…they all just think I’m…But not Lou. You’re _real._ ”

Louis can barely make out the incoherent mumbles Harry’s saying into his hair. He snakes his arms underneath Harry’s grip and carefully peels him off, pushing back on both of his shoulders.

“Harry, look at me. What are you talking about?”

Harry just licks his lips in response, before hiccupping. But Harry, clumsy, ridiculous, fucked up Harry, somehow hiccups hard enough for him to lose his balance. He sways backward, attempting to use his foot for leverage, only to step wrongly onto a throw pillow. He’s just out of Louis’ reach when he tries to prevent the singer’s fall, but it happens anyway, Harry landing flat on his butt with an, “ _oof!_ ”

He cracks himself up, snorting, collapsing flat on his back in a pile of limbs.

Louis groans, running both of his hands down his face. He hates this part – the part where he has to somehow get Harry up from whatever floor he’s found himself on that night and put him to bed. Louis really needs to start working out for real.

The first thing he does is turn the music off. Louis steps over Harry to take the stylus of the spinning record, sending a silent apology to John for the interruption – he needs it quiet.

“Come on, H. Help me out here.”

Harry holds his arms up in the air, somewhat helpfully, swaying them from side to side. Louis pulls him up into a sitting position then walks around him, grunting as he lifts him back up to his feet, hands underneath his armpits.

Louis takes a second to catch his breath before guiding Harry toward the bed. The singer drops himself down onto the plush white top sheet, face first, while Louis grabs the down comforter from the floor and drapes it over him.

Normally, this is the part where Harry’s on the brink of passing out. Louis will give him some water, and he’ll be asleep before Louis can even make it to the door.

Harry’s not falling asleep though. He’s sitting upright under the covers, holding his water glass carefully in both hands, shirt almost complete off and bunched at the crooks of his elbows. He’s watching Louis. He’s watching Louis with this look of desperation, _fear_ , and Louis doesn’t understand. He wants _so much_ to understand this boy, and what goes on in his head, but he honestly feels so winded trying to keep up.

“Where are you going now?” Harry blinks, eyes glassy.

He’d almost made it. Louis stands there, hand hovering over the doorknob.

“You said you didn’t want to go. Why are you going?” Harry says it faster than he’s ever heard him speak before, rushing out of him with this sense of urgency that if he doesn’t say it fast enough then Louis will disappear forever.

He can’t. Louis doesn’t even know why he tries anymore. He can’t walk away from Harry like that twice in one day.

He moves away from the door, dropping his hand. Slowly, Louis walks back over the bed. He’s hesitant, careful, afraid he’s going to do something he’ll regret. Harry follows him with his eyes as Louis slides his shoes off and sits down across from him at the foot of the bed.

Louis looks him dead in the eyes when he tells him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

As if his words pulled a trigger inside of Harry, two silent tears finally fall down his pale cheeks.

“I hate this,” Harry whispers. It’s strained as it comes out, like he’s been holding the words inside of him for so long he doesn’t know how to say them out loud without the world exploding. A secret he’s never been allowed to share.

Louis furrows his brows in concern. “What Harry? Hate what? The photo shoots?”

Harry shakes his head violently, the tears coming down faster.

“Everything! All of it!” Harry explodes. His face is pinched, as if he’s trying so hard to concentrate, trying so hard to fight through his high and the booze to explain himself. Louis’ never seen Harry _fight it_ before. “This, this life that’s not even _mine,_ Louis.”

_I love you. I’m so sorry. Let me help you._

“After you left, they brought in all these girls… all these other models and I –“ Harry hiccups. “I thought it was just going to-to be me. Because it’s _my_ music, right? But then suddenly I’m in the pool with all these _girls_ and I’m –“

Louis shuts his eyes, fighting off that blood-boiling image. It’s hard enough having to walk in on Harry drowning in women on their nights out. It’s entirely more painful to hear it come from Harry’s own lips.

“Everyone always wants something from me, that-that I can’t give and they just dress me up like I’m their _doll._ Like I’m just a coat hanger that they keep in their closets. Not a person.”

Louis, against his own will, has tears building in his own eyes. “Harry.”

“I’m not real either, am I?” Harry sniffs, the pained expression on his face is too much for Louis to handle. “I’m just… a _thing._ What even am I, if I’m not me?”

 _That’s enough._ Louis reaches forward, grabbing hold of both Harry’s wrists.

“Harry, _no._ Look at me. Look at what this life has done to you? These people, what these _drugs_ have done to you?”

Harry blinks at him, curls messily stuck to his wet cheeks. Louis reaches out, tucking the strands gently behind his ears.

“Harry, you are the most unique and incredible person I’ve ever met. There’s no one like you and… I see you, Harry. I see the you that’s underneath all the lights and the glitter and the costumes and it’s a real person under it all. With a heart and a mind, who cackles instead of laughs and can’t play football for shit and feels _so much…”_

Harry’s lips part just barely, staring back at Louis with slightly wild eyes. For a moment, Louis fears he might be sick. Louis himself feels a bit sick after spilling his fucking guts out. He’s taken completely by surprise when Harry, without tearing his eyes away, pulls the covers aside and crawls slowly to him on his hands and knees. Louis stops breathing when Harry settles down on his lap, his thighs framing the outside of Louis’ legs.

“Harry…” Louis’ voice quivers. “What are you doing?”

Harry leans in closer, their faces only inches apart. He hesitantly brings his hands up to cup the sides of Louis’ neck – just barely, as if he’s scared to really touch, but is itching to explore, to discover what it would feel like.

“I’m not allowed to kiss boys.” His voice is low, gruff, but timid. Confessional.

Louis’ heart races. He licks his lips. “Who told you that?”

“My dad. God.”

Louis can feel Harry’s breath on him. He smells of cognac and mint. They’re so close, he revels sinfully in the warm weight of Harry in his lap and the fact that he’s never seen Harry’s eyes with this much clarity. He wants him. He wants him more than anything.

“I’m not allowed to kiss boys either.”

“Who told you that?”

“Myself.”

Harry’s the one to initiate it. He slowly leans down, resting his forehead against Louis’. He leans in further and further until their lips just barely brush together.

Harry’s the one to initiate it, but Louis’ the one to do it. He closes the distance between them and immediately bursts into flames.

Harry’s lips are dangerously soft and plush and exactly how he always fantasized them being. He tastes so sweet and yet so forbidden Louis fights for his brain to shut off for _five goddamn minutes._ Louis feels almost intoxicated himself as he licks away the remaining cognac staining Harry’s lips.

The kiss is tentative enough at first, two men exploring each other in a way they never before dared to, but it deepens quickly, Harry’s tongue begging for entrance and Louis granting it.

It’s sloppy and desperate, but fuck if it’s not the best kiss he’s had in his life and that sends a shock of fear through Louis. He knows now without a doubt that he is ruined for absolutely anything and anyone else. No kiss in the future given by anyone else’s lips will compare, and up until this moment, Louis had sworn Harry was straight.  

Louis breaks them apart, breathing heavily. Harry whines at the loss, chasing after his lips as Louis pulls away.

“Harry are you going to regret this?”

“What?” Harry asks, confused and still a little dazed.

“In the morning. Are you going to regret this, because I’m not positive you even realize what you’re doing.”

Harry stares down at him, looking as serious as he can be in his state. “I could never regret you, Lou.”

Louis lets out a shuddery breath.

Briefly, he catches the time on the clock behind Harry’s head above the bed. It’s nearly half-two.

“You should sleep, Harry.”

It’s true. He has another big show tomorrow and needs enough time to sleep through his hangover. But Louis also knows that if he doesn’t find a way to leave, he never will. He’d be kissing Harry until the sun came up and it becomes harder to explain what he was doing in Harry’s room all night.

“I don’t want to sleep,” Harry whines, kissing him again.

Louis groans despite himself. It takes everything in him to pull away.

“Harry, please. Don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

After a moment, Harry sits back on his heels. He bites his lip hard enough to turn the flushed berry colour of his lips white. Louis wants to tell him to stop it.

“If I sleep, will you stay?” Harry asks him. “You said you’d stay.”

Louis thinks about Paul coming back first thing in the morning, using his own key, letting himself in to wake Harry for breakfast.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Harry slowly climbs off Louis’ lap, Louis immediately missing the warmth of his body. The boy sways a bit, crawling back underneath the bedcovers.

Louis stays where he is, unsure what to do now, where he’s supposed to go. He spots a chaise in the far corner near the en suite and starts to move toward it.

“Louis, no.” He turns back to Harry, who’s watching after him expectantly. Louis doesn’t know what he means until Harry pats his hand on the other side of the bed. “Stay.”

Louis gulps, then nods.

His hands shake a little as he gingerly lays himself down on the left side of the bed, deliberately on _top_ of the covers.

Louis focuses on the ceiling above him. He wants Harry. He wants to touch him so badly and he’s so frustrated with himself. Frustrated that he can’t shut off all the voices in his head calling him a bloody fruit. Frustrated with Harry for always having to be so fucked up that he’ll kiss anything close enough even if it’s Louis. He’s frustrated with Harry again for being the most incredibly beautiful man he’s ever met.

After lying in silence, only listening to each other’s breathing, Louis feels Harry reach across the sheets and carefully lacing his fingers through his own. Louis refuses to look at him, but tightens his grip on his hand.

At four o’clock in the morning, when Harry’s fast asleep, Louis finally lets him go, turning off the lamps, and sneaking out the door back down to the buses.

***

Harry doesn’t remember.

Louis and Harry kissed last night and Harry doesn’t remember.

He hadn’t slept at all. He snuck back onto the black bus and into his bunk without waking the rest of the lads up. Then he had laid flat on his back in the dark and thought about what the fuck he’d just done.

He kissed a boy. He kissed _Harry. Harry_ kissed _him._

And he loved it. He loved every agonizing second of it.

Louis was sure Harry was going to want nothing to do with him when he saw him next. That he’d realized what the drugs made him do and leave Louis behind like he probably should have done ages ago.

Filled with anxiety and avoiding Liam’s questioning eyes, Louis stayed inside the bus until they’d pulled up outside the Troubadour for the second LA show. He immediately threw himself into work.

He’d half-convinced himself that he was right – Harry hadn’t come to find him at any point in the day, so surely he was upset – until Sarah passed by him while he and Liam were programming the lights.

“Harry’s asking for you. Dressing room,” Sarah had said over her shoulder, smiling kindly at him and twirling one of her drumsticks between her fingers.

Louis hesitated, but Liam nudged him in the shoulder, clearly having picked up on Louis’ anxious energy.

“I’ve got it, Lou.”

Louis rolled his eyes, but thanked him anyway. On the walk to Harry’s dressing room, he could only imagine what Harry was going to say.

_Maybe he’s going to confront me before he tells me to fuck off._

Louis reached the dressing room with the sign.

_Only the Moon and Her Lovers_

When he walked in, he found Harry with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, filtering through his box of nail varnishes on the vermillion shag rug.

“Hey, Lou!” Harry smiled when he saw him.

Louis had closed the door behind him, confused at Harry’s warm welcome.

“Hey… are you okay, Hazza?”

“’Course! Woke up with a gnarly headache though. I didn’t do anything crazy last night, did I?”

Louis stared at him. “What?”

Harry blew out a ring of smoke and picked out a black polish bottle.

“Can’t remember anything from last night after the show. Actually, don’t even really remember leaving the stage. Paul told me you put me to bed again.”

Louis couldn’t quite believe what Harry had just told him. Firstly, because, despite the frequency that Harry snorts coke and drinks himself into oblivion, he always managed to hold onto his memories. Harry hadn’t even been that bad last night – Louis’ had to clean up worse before. Secondly, because apparently, Harry didn’t remember their kiss.

Louis knew he should’ve been relieved. That they can move forward from this without anyone knowing it ever happened. Well, everyone except Louis.

In reality, it hit Louis right in the gut.

“You – you don’t remember anything about last night?” Louis stammered. “Anything at all?”

“Nope,” Harry replied, popping the ‘p’. “Must have been a real wild one.”

“Right.”

Harry stubbed out his cigarette on one of polish bottles, not noticing Louis’ weird mood. “Paint my nails, please?”

So he did. He sat down on the carpet with him and painted Harry’s nails black while he spewed various Harryisms at Louis until a loud Irishman burst through the door.

“Wey, hey!”

“Niall!” Harry shouted, popping up to his feet and running at full speed toward his best friend, holding his drying fingernails comically out of the way.

“Hey, Haz. Hey, Louis,” Niall nodded at him, an arm full of Harry.

Louis nodded back, screwing the cap back on the bottle. “Hey.”

Harry then proceeded to attach himself to Niall’s hip, filling him in on various things that his manager had missed since he last visited them on the road.

Louis decided to leave them alone to catch up, slipping out the door unnoticed and heading back to Liam and Alberto.

“Stop it,” Louis scolded himself as his eyes misted over, wet with tears he refused to shed.

He’s standing in the middle of the crowd now, waiting with Liam for Harry to come on.

It’s his first time watching the show since that night back in London. It was always much easier, much less hectic to watch from the wings. Confusing feelings or not, Louis isn’t about to miss his last chance to see Harry perform at the famous Troubadour.

“Lou!”

Louis follows the sound of his name to see Niall squeezing his way through a throng of girls toward him and Liam. The Troubadour is a smaller venue than some of the other shows they’ve already done, so they don’t get a closed off section this time. Which isn’t too bad, just a lot louder and sweatier.

Niall smiles when he finally reaches them.

“All set, is he?” Louis asks, mind flashing back to a few hours ago when he last saw Niall and the conversation we was having with Harry before Niall showed up.

“Yeah, he’s buzzin’ back there. The bugger couldn’t sit still,” Niall laughs. He peeks over to Louis’ other side and stretches his hand out to Liam. “Hey, mate. Don’t think we’ve been introduced yet. ‘M Niall.”

Liam shakes his hand happily, shouting over the din. “Liam! Nice to meet you, too.”

They don’t get to talk much more beyond pleasantries, because the house lights dim and the opening notes of _Only Angel_ begin.

Harry’s on fire tonight. He absolutely _owns_ the stage, prancing around and hitting each note perfectly and with incredible passion.

He looks gorgeous. His hair is falling in effortless ringlets, wild like a lion’s mane. He’s wearing a sequined black and gold marching jacket, exquisitely tailored with matching sparkling gold makeup glittering atop his cheekbones.

He’s so beautiful and Louis can’t take his eyes off of him.

He couldn’t look away from him during that show in London either, and at the time Harry was only this mysterious, off-limits celebrity. And now, he’s none of that. Louis knows him. Knows things about him nobody else in this room would know, except for maybe Niall. Louis knows how he tastes and how his heartbeat feels against his own chest.

And Louis loves him so much.

He wipes away a stray tear when he notices in his peripheral vision that Niall’s been staring at him. Louis turns his head to him, meeting Niall’s pointed look. He briefly glances from Harry back to Louis.

_Oh._

Niall grabs on to Louis’ forearm and leans forward to whisper directly into his ear.

“Please. Take care of him, okay?”

Niall leans back, waiting for an answer.

Louis lets out a shaky breath, another tear falling as he nods.

_I will. I fucking will._

Louis focuses back on the stage just in time for the last few chords of _Kiwi_ and Harry thrusting his hips and blowing water high into the air.

The lights go black and the crowd goes wild.

***

Louis mostly keeps to himself on the drive to San Francisco – the very last stop of the tour.

He can’t wrap his head around it, how quickly ten weeks can escape you. How much can really happen in only ten weeks. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s next for him when he no longer has this.

One thing he does know is that Niall knows something. He can’t possibly know about the kiss, seeing as Louis sure hasn’t told him and Harry doesn’t even remember. Last night at the show though, the look on Niall’s face…

_Please. Just take care of him, okay?_

Of course he will. He’d do it for the rest of his life if he could. But why did Niall ask _him?_ What did he see last night that made Niall trust him enough with his best friend, whatever it was supposed to mean.

Niall may or may not know about him, but after that kiss, there’s no way Louis can go back to his old life without Harry. And he’s dreading the fact that he has to.

San Francisco is like Wonderland.

Louis’ never seen a city so bright and lively and expressive, except for maybe London, but even London doesn’t have quite the same carefree aura. All the buildings and houses are different – each telling their own stories in their architecture and art.

Louis loves it immediately. He loves the hills and the colors, the character, and the bay in the distance. LA was great, but _this_ is a place Louis could really see himself in some alternative future where he could do and be whatever he wants.

The buses pull up outside the hotel. The boys pile out onto the sidewalk to stretch out their limbs, Louis immediately taking in the air – a combination of stale marijuana and petrol.

It still makes him smile. The sun is shining, a light breeze is coming from pier just a few blocks over, and he’s in bloody _San Francisco._ He’s well familiar with the reputation of this city, he can feel its history under his feet. This is the city for people like him and it’s not lost on Louis.

He jumps slightly when he’s clapped on the shoulder by Niall, accompanied by an adorably sleep-rumpled Harold.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Whaddya lads say about some late lunch and a pint?” the Irishman asks him, gesturing as well to Greg, Sandy and Liam behind him.

“I could eat,” Louis says. They passed dozens of delicious looking restaurants on their way to the hotel. He looks to Harry, who’s barely awake on his feet, long eyelashes fluttering as his eyes droop. The poor thing put so much into the show last night, Louis wouldn’t be surprised if he slept the whole ride upstate. He pokes him gently in the stomach. “Hey, sleepyhead. Fancy a meal?”

Harry whines, moving his torso out of Louis’ reach. He doesn’t miss the slight tilt at the corners of Harry’s mouth, though.

Once the band is checked in and their luggage is sent to their rooms, Niall’s casual invitation for lunch turned into a whole event. Paul wouldn’t let them go by themselves this time, as San Francisco is much more compact of a city, with more risk of Harry being cornered should he be recognized. Then Sarah, Mitch, Adam, and Clare decided they wanted to join as well.

So now they walk down Market Street, Harry and his full entourage: him, the band, Louis, Niall, Liam, the lads, several crew members and Harry’s entire security team.

Naturally, they attract a lot of attention. By the time they make it out front of the pub-like restaurant Niall had read about and wanted to try, they’ve gathered quite the collection of squealing fans trailing them like ducklings.

“Back up, ladies. Back up, please.” Paul and the other bodyguards make a small barricade while Louis grabs Harry by the wrist and pulls him inside.

Despite the early chaos, it’s a nice meal. Most of the crowd has dispersed and those remaining linger outside at the insistence of the restaurant staff and Paul. They pushed a few tables together while pints were passed around and plates of freshly-fried chips were shared.

Louis looks around at each person in their troupe, taking in each of the faces that he’s grown to know so well the past ten weeks. Faces he realizes he’s going to really miss. Louis’ eyes land on Harry last, sitting to his right, fully awake now and telling another one of his jokes. Louis feels his face soften as he studies the boy.

He really should buy Liam a gift when they get home. If not for him, he’d never have met Harry.

“Fucking faggots.”

Louis’ blood runs cold. His shoulders tense as his heart rate takes off. He looks away from Harry so fast he’s surprised his neck doesn’t snap. The slur, that horrible fucking word, he realizes, wasn’t aimed at him, though.

Across the restaurant, tucked away in their own little corner are two boys sharing a slice of pie. They can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen years old, looking so very young and, well, in love. They aren’t sitting too close, but their bodies lean into each other in a way that makes Louis’ neck redden with hot familiarity. They aren’t touching except for their pinky fingers delicately looped together. He’d recognize the look in their eyes anywhere – it’s how he knows he looks at Harry.

A rotund, red-faced man bolts up from the booth across from their table. The boys jerk back away from each other, their eyes widening in unmistakable fear. The man grabs his mug and a ball of his used napkins, stalking over to them.

“Fucking faggots! Get out of my face while I’m eating!”

Louis’ breath is caught in his chest in horror as the man throws his napkins in their direction, making his point clear by tossing what appears to be hot coffee right at them. One of the boys cries out in pain as the hot liquid burns the bare skin of his forearms, the other jumping in panic to help him.

Nearly in tears, Louis’ scared half to death, not knowing what the fuck to do, as Harry jumps upright, his chair bolting out from under him.

“ _Hey!”_ Harry booms, his eyes colder than Louis’ ever seen them.

The man turns around, zeroing in on Harry now. He starts to charge over, but is swiftly stopped in his tracks by Paul. The restaurant manager rushes over to help with the conflict. Every other customer in the room stares uncomfortably at the scene.

“Harry, sit down.” Niall yanks him by the arm back into his seat. Harry pulls himself out of Niall’s grip, his whole body shaking. Niall watches him in concern. “Breathe, H. Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Niall!” Harry yells, his voice cracking slightly. “He can’t do that! He – he can’t fucking _say_ that to them.”

“I know, Hazza. But look, they’re getting help. Paul’s kicking ‘im out. It’s not worth it.”

Harry takes a deep breath in through his nose, his exhale shaky. The rest of the table is deathly quiet, staring at the two of them, speechless.

Gently, so as to not upset him even further, Louis wraps his hand around Harry’s wrist under the table. “Harry,” he says, softly.

He turns his head to face Louis, sage eyes screaming back at him.

_I’m not allowed to kiss boys._

_Who told you that?_

_My dad. God._

He’s scared. He’s scared just like Louis and he think he’ starting to understand why.

_That could’ve been me. Maybe, that could’ve been us._

But Harry doesn’t remember.

“Why don’t we go back to the hotel, okay? Get some rest before the show?” Louis asks him, wanting nothing more in this moment than to run away with Harry and never come across another human ever again.

Harry uses his free hand to wipe his nose before nodding tentatively.

Niall, having obviously been watching and listening, takes charge, standing up and motioning for the tab. They call a few cars to take them back this time, Louis, Niall, and Liam climbing into the back with Harry. It’s silent the entire ride save for the crackling radio playing old Little Richard.

“I’ll just wait for you down here, Lou,” Liam says as they reach the hotel, unlocking the door to the bus. He nods his head up to the climbing windows of the Palace, just knowing Louis’ going to want to walk Harry up to his room.

“I’ll be back,” Louis says, following Niall and Harry inside.

Once the elevator doors open to his floor and they start down Harry’s hallway, Niall falls back a few paces, letting Harry and Louis walk alone.

Louis isn’t quite sure what to say to Harry that wouldn’t give himself away – about his feelings, about the kiss, about how he may or may not suddenly think that Harry’s reasoning for his reaction back at the restaurant might be the same as his own. And how that scares him more than everything else.

Harry opens his door and moves inside but stops Louis when he tries to follow.

“Erm, I’m sorry, Lou. I think I just want to be alone for a little while…” Harry’s staring intensely at the floor, grip tight on the door handle.

Louis’ chest constricts.

“Oh,” Louis breathes out, trying his best not the let his disappointment show. “Yeah, no problem, Hazza. I’ll…I’ll see you at the show, then.”

Harry doesn’t say anything else, then stalks further into his room, leaving a sliver of the door open.

Niall comes up behind him, looking sympathetic. “Sorry, mate,” he says, before closing the door to Harry’s room behind him.

Louis sighs inwardly, walking back toward the elevators.

When he’s finally alone in his bunk, he allows himself to shake, letting it all out, biting hard down on his bottom lip while images loop continuously in his head of frightened boys and coffee burns.

_Fucking faggots. Fucking faggots. Fucking faggots._

***

If Louis thought Harry was amazing in LA, then San Francisco was probably the best night of Harry’s tour.

Despite the nightmare that was that afternoon, Harry ran out on stage and sang his amazing fucking heart out.

Louis was in the audience again, smile never once leaving his face as he watched the boy he loved doing what he loves. And then just like that, it was over. Harry sang his final encore, the curtains descended and his tour in America had finally come to a close.

Harry’s management had rented them a house to host a huge post-tour celebration. It didn’t make sense to Louis at first, seeing as they’d also gotten Harry and the band their own hotel rooms, but he understands rather quickly about the change in venue. The after party isn’t just for the band and the crew, but rather, almost every socialite and celebrity who happened to be in San Francisco at the moment as well.

The house was packed – singers and models and producers alike dancing around to the overbearing music, champagne in one hand and cigars in the other. Several guests occupied the pool out on the terrace as well, the constant sound of squealing and splashing filtering through Louis’ ears as he searched for Harry.

He hasn’t talked to Harry since that afternoon when he asked to be alone. To anyone else, Harry probably would have seemed well over the restaurant fiasco based on his performance alone, where he was vibrant and energetic. Louis, though, knows the façade, recognizes the mask Harry puts on when he’s succumbed to his stage persona. Most likely, Harry’s still bothered and this environment, frankly, renders Louis completely anxious.

So Louis does something selfish. The moment he sees Harry out on the terrace waiting his turn to snort the next line, he pulls him away, dragging him by the arm back inside the house, up the stairs and into the nearest unlocked room.

If he’s only got one night left before going back to London, he wants it to be with Harry. For one last time, Louis wants all of Harry’s attention on him and not the drugs, not the women, not the booze. Just _him_ , so he can pretend for a second that maybe this was all something real and not some cruel elaborate fantasy.

“Jesus, Lou,” Harry breathes as Louis slams the door behind them. They’re in a bedroom, the master most likely, due to the sheer size of the space, the large king-sized bed pushed up against the back wall and a dim, twinkling crystal chandelier hanging down from the ceiling.

Suddenly, Louis’ embarrassed. What did he expect out of this plan? That Harry would want to just twiddle this thumbs alone with Louis all night when he can have a world’s worth of luxuries and entertainment at his fingertips just downstairs? Even still, his heart is screaming not to let Harry leave him.

“Louis?” Harry asks quietly. He sounds remarkably sober, his brow pinched in concern as he walks closer to Louis. “Are you okay?”

Louis doesn’t know what to do anymore. So he tells the truth.

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

Louis shakes his head, crossing his arms protectively over his chest as frustrated tears well up in his eyes.

“I don’t – I don’t want to go home Harry. Before I took this job, I had nothing going for me. I hate uni, my job pays shit, and I have no fucking clue what I’m going to do with my life. Everyone’s got it all figured out by now except me! The only thing I’ve got going for me is my family and Liam and even then, I can’t rely on them forever. And then _you_ happened and I –“

Louis cuts himself off, cautiously meeting Harry’s eyes. The boy’s lips are parted, gazing down at Louis with a dazed expression, listening patiently, waiting for Louis to finish.

If this is going to be Louis’ last chance to say anything to Harry before the universe rights itself and he goes back to talking to the people who actually belong in his world, then he’s going to just fucking say it. If Harry hates him then… maybe it’ll all be easier that way.

“And then I met you Harry, and I swear to God, I’ve never wanted to keep someone I couldn’t have so badly. You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met and you are so much more than the world gives you credit for. More than your shit parents. You’re more than your image and your fame and you’re so fucking beautiful Harry. I’m sorry if you think that’s wrong, or that’s weird, but there’s not a moment in my day that I don’t want to be with you and if I can’t do that then, _please,_ don’t go back downstairs. Just tonight, stay here with me. Stay.”

His heart pounds wildly in his chest, anticipating the worst as he studies Harry for a reaction.

Harry blinks at him, eyes boring right into him for ten agonizing seconds before Harry cautiously steps forward, coming closer and closer into Louis’ space. Louis doesn’t realize he’d been walking backward until his back hits the door, no more room left to run.

Harry gulps. He’s so close that Louis can hear it.

“Have you ever heard of déjà vu?”

“What?” Louis asks, utterly confused.

“French. It means, _already seen,_ ” Harry elaborates.

“No, I know, but… Why are you bringing it up now?”

Slowly, Harry lifts his hand to gently cup Louis’ cheek. Louis stands absolutely still against the door as Harry swipes his thumb across his lips. Harry’s eyes flicker down to his mouth as he does it.

“We’ve done this before.”

Louis exhales. “You – you remember?”

Harry doesn’t answer. He lowers his forehead to rest against Louis’, almost completely closing in on him as Harry begins to hum. The tune is unrecognizable to him at first, though it hits Louis hard just before Harry starts to sing – the Stevie song.

“Like a glove, like the love, that had finally, _finally_ found me…”

When their lips crash together, there’s a rush that goes straight to his head that feels like coming home. He’s completely enveloped in Harry, the boy’s body pressed firmly up against his, his hands on his cheeks.

They break apart for air, Harry trailing hot kisses down his neck that render Louis into nothing more than a series of sharp breaths and moans. When Harry pushes them further into the door, he feels the unmistakably hard bulge at the front of one of Harry’s sinfully tight trousers rub right against Louis’ own rapidly growing hard on, sending a wave of pleasure through him that makes him lightheaded.

“Make love to me, Louis…” Harry whispers, as he kisses the skin below his ear.

Louis’ whole body freezes. “Wh-what?”

Harry moves back to capture Louis’ lips in his again, kissing once, twice, an attempt to relax him.

“Please, Lou. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted you.”

Louis’ head is about to explode. It’s almost too much at once, all of it suddenly overwhelming, hearing that while being held in Harry’s arms.

“You have?”

Harry kisses him again. Louis’ drunk and he hasn’t had a single drip of alcohol.

“I’ve seen you watching me, Lou. I’ve been watching you, too.”

Louis’ whole body shivers. “Harry…”

Harry tucks his face into Louis’ neck, snaking his hands down and around him, pulling Louis even closer by the dip of his back. “Please, Louis. I want to feel you.”

For a split second, everything in Louis tells him this isn’t going to end well. But then Harry rolls his hips _just right_ and he decides that he really doesn’t give a fucking shit.

“Okay,” Louis nods, breathless. “Okay.”

Harry doesn’t waste any time. He picks him up, Louis wrapping his legs around his waist, before Harry drops him onto the plush, velvety bed. Louis giggles when he bounces a little, but the laugh dies in his throat when he sees Harry crawling over him, his eyes intense with lust.

 _He’s looking at_ me.

Clothes are quickly shed and tossed aside and once they’re completely naked under the covers, tangled up in each other, Harry whispers in his ear:

“I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

The night goes on, the thumping vibrations and party noises coming from downstairs can still be heard for hours as Harry fucks him into the mattress. Holding his boy close as he reaches his climax, Louis feels a single tear escape down his cheek. He thinks he’s never felt more complete.

Maybe he gets to keep Harry after all.

***

The early morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows is what wakes him.

Louis squints, groaning as he turns his head away from the brightness, resting back onto the pillow on his other cheek. He feels a tight soreness in his bum when he moves. He smiles to himself as the events of last night come flooding back into his consciousness. It stings a little, but in such a good way.

Blinking both his eyes open and rubbing the sleep out of them, he sees Harry, still sleeping soundly on the other side of the bed, sheets pooled just above his bum. He’s got his back to Louis, his broad shoulders expanding slowly as he breathes.

Louis pinches himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. This is what he wants to wake up to every morning for the rest of his life.

He pulls the covers away from himself and slides closer to Harry, spooning the boy from behind so Louis’ chest molds around his back, his arms circling loose around his stomach.

Harry stirs in his sleep, leaning in to Louis’ touch.

“Morning, Haz,” Louis rasps, his voice rough from sleep. He gently combs away a section of Harry’s unruly hair to press a kiss against the back of his neck.

“Mmm… morning.”

Stretching his arms above him like a cat, Harry moans so adorably Louis can’t help but laugh. Harry rolls flat onto his back and finally opens his eyes, Louis softly padding his fingers up and down the skin under his butterfly tattoo.

The lazy, half-asleep smirk on Harry’s face falls almost immediately as he looks up at Louis. His skin pales and his beautiful, sage green eyes nearly bug out of their sockets.

Louis recognizes it right away, the look in Harry’s eyes, panic sinking heavy down in his gut – fear, shame, _regret._

His hand stills on Harry’s stomach. “Hazza…”

“Fuck… What the _fuck,_ Louis.”

Harry bolts out from under Louis and out of bed, nearly tripping as one of his ankles gets caught in the sheets. He frantically searches the floor for his clothes, uncaring about his current nudity. If Louis wasn’t so ridden with paralyzing anxiety over what might be happening, he’d probably be blushing.

“Harry, please,” Louis pleads, sitting upright on the bed, pulling up the covers to cover himself. “Talk to me. Don’t freak out.”

Harry’s bouncing into his stupidly tight pants, he stops dead, whipping his head back to face Louis. His eyes are wild as he scoffs. “Don’t _freak out_? Don’t fucking tell me not freak out, Louis!”

Louis recoils. Harry’s never yelled at him before.

“Harry, I –“

Harry struggles to finish buttoning his trousers, his hands shaking. “I can’t fucking believe I… last night didn’t happen.”

Louis feels sick. Afraid he might actually retch right there on the sheets.

“What do you mean, Harry? What the fuck is happening…”

His head is swimming. He doesn’t understand what changed in the hours before the sun came up. The last thing Louis remembers before falling asleep was the feeling of Harry’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as the boy drowsily kissed his face, whispering sweet nothings to him ( _“My beautiful, beautiful Lou. Those blue eyes of yours, the first thing I remember about you, how stunning your eyes were. Beautiful, Lou...”)_

Harry points a shaking finger at him. “You can’t say a word of this.”

Louis sputters, “I’d never, Harry. I’m not an idiot. That doesn’t change the fact that last night very much _did happen._ ”

“So you understand then,” Harry says, buttoning up his shirt. “You understand how – how _wrong_ this is.”

“Wrong?” Louis’ voice cracks at the end of the word, heart splintering.

“Yes, wrong. Men don’t fuck each other, Louis.” Harry’s dressed but he isn’t moving. He shifts on his feet, looking anywhere but at Louis. His voice is deep and dark, the darkest Louis’ ever heard and it doesn’t sound real. It doesn’t sound like his Harry, but rather someone he doesn’t recognize at all.

Louis’ trying his hardest to fight back his tears. He feels like he’s swallowed a rock.

“Was it wrong when you said you wanted me? That you’ve been waiting for me your whole life?” His voice raises as he gets progressively upset.

Harry shakes his head, stalking to the bedroom door and opening it.

“ _Niall!”_ Harry yells down the hallway.

Louis pushes further, unable to accept anything Harry’s saying.

“Was it wrong when you kissed me? When _you_ asked to _make love_ to me!”

Harry slams the door shut, walking fiercely toward the foot of the bed. “Shut up!”

Louis swallows his next words, eyes rounding as he realizes what might have been carried down the hallway.

Harry’s frustrated. He tugs at his greasy curls. Louis can see tears of his own threatening to fall and it confuses the fuck out of him.

“I – I was _high,_ Louis…”

Louis blinks at him. “Bullshit. I know when you’re high. I know because _I’m_ the one who takes care of your sorry arse when you’re high, you fucking dick. Now you’re just fucking _lying._ ”

Harry finally looks at him, and Louis can see the pain behind his red-rimmed eyes. It’s possibly the worst feeling going through him right now, that despite all the horrible things Harry’s said, Louis’ first instinct is to take away his pain.

Harry swallows, his throat thick, tight.

“Not really sure you know me at all, then.”

The splinter in his heart cracks all the way through.

At that moment, Niall bursts through the bedroom door, looking for the fire. He takes one glance at the scene before him: Harry with his reddened love bites, Louis still wrapped in the sheets on the bed. The way the both of them stare at each other from across the room, two broken people at an impasse.

“Oh, shit,” the Irishman curses under his breath.

“Niall,” Harry calls, face crumbling.

He rushes to his best mate, wrapping a protective arm around Harry’s shoulder despite the slight height difference. “C’mon, Haz.”

“Just – just, please, stay away from me,” Harry whimpers to Louis before letting Niall guide him out of the room.

Niall gives Louis a sympathetic look before closing the door behind him, leaving Louis all alone to soak in the aftermath of getting his heart completely pulverized.

He sits there for another few minutes in shock, breaths becoming sharper. Slowly, he climbs out of bed and gets himself dressed.

He finds Liam at the bottom of the stairs, looking hungover as all hell.

“ _There_ you are. Where’d you disappear to last night? We’ve got to pack up the buses to head to the airport and – Lou? Lou, what’s wrong?”

Louis crashes into his best mate’s arms, tucking his face tight into his neck as he cries.

Confused and immediately alert, Liam rubs at Louis’ back soothingly as he sobs.

“Shh, shh. Hey, you’re okay. Lou, it’s okay…”

***

Harry avoids Louis like the plague on the flight back to London. He keeps his head down, tucked under Niall’s protective arm all the way through the airport as Louis’ bloodshot eyes pitifully stare at the back of his head behind a pair of aviators.

He sleeps nearly the entire flight, and even in the few bouts of time when he isn’t, he pretends to be, keeping his back turned to Liam as his friend sits helplessly next to him. Greg and Sandy don’t even try to say a final goodbye on their way out of Heathrow, which just makes Louis feel guilty and even more pathetic.

He’s silent on the tube ride back to Kentish Town, bursting through into his room for the first time in ten weeks after Liam lets them into their flat. He stands there, taking in his miniscule space, still slightly untidy just how he left it after packing for America. He doesn’t even set down his trunk, instead, turning right back around.

“I’ll be back in a couple days,” is the only thing he says to Liam behind his shoulder as he stalks back out the front door.

He takes the tube to King’s Cross and boards the first train out to Doncaster.

He finds his mother in the kitchen drying dishes. He stands there, and just seeing her, just seeing his _mum_ is what finally breaks him.

He drops his suitcase on the wooden floor, causing Jay to jump, dishes clanging in the sink. She turns around, eyes widening as she sees Louis.

“Louis, love! You’re home. I didn’t even know you were on your way back. What are –“

“Mum,” Louis cuts her off, bottom lip quivering.

Jay frowns, wiping her wet hands on a rag before crossing the kitchen to her son. “Oh. Oh, boo, what’s the matter?”

Louis crumbles as his mother takes him in her arms. He breathes in her warm, familiar scent, letting her rock him gently and smooth his hair.

“It’s alright, baby,” Jay coos. “Whatever it is, it’s alright.”

***

He spends a week at his mother’s house before he can work up the courage to go back to London.

Louis and his mother didn’t talk about why he showed up to the house unannounced in such a state. Not that he could tell her the truth even if he wanted to – he’d sooner die than confess to his mother the reason he came home in just about a million pieces – but he appreciated the fact that his mum didn’t pry. He could tell she knew it had something to do with his trip to America, but she has enough respect for him as her son not to tell him that she knew it was a bad idea from the start.

Instead, she let him have his fill of homemade meals and wrestle matches with his little sisters until he felt okay enough to return to his flat.

He gives them all a big hug goodbye, a nod to his step-dad, and a real promise to come back home more often and he’s back on the eleven o’clock train to London.

Once he makes it back home, Louis is determined for everything to just go back to normal. Maybe if he pretends the whole tour never happened, he’ll stop feeling like it ever did.

He cleans up the flat to keep his hands busy. He scrubs the bathroom tiles and empties out the refrigerator of its mouldy old takeaway containers. He goes to the the market and picks up actual fresh fruit and veg, his insides not feeling their best after months of gas station pastries and booze.

He bites the bullet and signs up for courses for his last year at uni; two literature courses and a science class. He stays clear of anything theatre related, especially the technical courses. He needs a fucking break from stages, lights, and ladders.

Louis also goes back to work. He’s got all the money he made from tour locked away in the bank, but he needs something to do before the school year officially starts again and he figures it couldn’t hurt having more cash in his pockets – he isn’t going anywhere near the money in the bank, that’s for sure.

He walks through the door of Shady Lady Records and immediately regrets it.

Jed and the girls welcome him back with open arms, Perrie interrogating him on anything and everything he knows about Harry fucking Styles.

_Too much. Too fucking much._

And that’s the hilariously cruel thing – Harry is everywhere. For some tortuous reason, the universe isn’t allowing him to forget the one person he’ll never be able to in his wildest dreams. He can’t forget and he can’t seem to outrun him either.

Almost every customer coming ‘round the shop comes in to purchase Harry’s album, or his posters, or buttons. He hears his fucking songs walking around with Liam at the mall or at the pub just around the corner from uni, with drunken girls singing Harry’s lyrics back in his face like some elaborate joke.

“So, mate,” Jed claps him on the shoulder one afternoon after about a week being back in London. “You’ve been far too quiet. Tell us all about your adventures abroad.”

Jade – who Jed apparently scored a date with only four days after Louis’ departure and has been dating ever since – and Leigh are in the shop today as well, pausing their stack organizing to listen in as well.

Louis sighs, not looking from his sorting piles of buttons. He really should have known he couldn’t have just come back home and move on without anyone pestering him about tour.

“Not much to tell, honestly. Was fun and all that.”

Jed scoffs. “That’s all you have to say? You mean to tell me you spent months on the road, livin’ it up with the likes of rockstars and all it was, was a bit of fun?”

Louis shrugs, sitting down on his stickered stool behind the till.

“What happened to you?” Jed presses. “I know you were pouty before, but now you’re just down right somber. Party drugs fry your head out already? What happened to all your talk about not being a side character anymore? Havin’ the life worthy of the hero and all that…”

Louis shakes his head, his unkempt fringe swaying side-to-side. Somewhere in the middle of the United States, Louis got so sucked up in his whirlwind of a life that he had forgotten all about his so-called side-character theory. He thought maybe, before he left, that this tour, meeting Harry Styles, getting to see new parts of the world would be the adventure worthy of finally casting himself as the lead role. Those arcs just don’t happen to side characters.

But then again, the heroes always get the happy endings. That’s something Louis still can’t relate to.

“Oh, leave him alone, Jed,” Leigh quips, reapplying rosy blusher onto her cheeks with a compact mirror in her hands. “Lou’s obviously just sad to be back in London with all us boring sods.”

“Yep. She’s right,” Louis agrees, going along with it because _please can this conversation be over already,_ “Except you’re not boring.”

Jed rolls his eyes, but ultimately leaves him alone. Louis can tell Jed understands there’s more than Louis’ letting on, but decides to let him off the hook for now.

Just when Louis finally thinks he can return to doing mindless work while adamantly refusing to think of a flurry of things, all of them to do with curly-haired rockstars who break hearts, the world gives him another kick in the gut.

“Lou! That’s such a lovely ring! Where did you get it?” Jade squeals in her thick Geordie accent, grabbing his left hand.

Almost every day Louis forgets that he’s still even wearing it, but when he does remember, when he catches sight of it while washing in the shower or feels it clack against surfaces that he touches, he just… can’t take it off. He can’t fucking do it and it actually kind of kills him.

Here it is, the last remaining physical piece of Harry that Louis could simply chuck into the Thames and allow himself to start to move on, anchor-free.

That’s the thing, though. It’s the _last piece of Harry_ that Louis has beside his memories, which really are all just a series of fantasies in disguise. Memories will fade with time, this ring – _Harry’s ring_ – it’s all Louis has left. (Well, except for Patrick, who’s been stuffed deep into the back of his closet, the poor lad.) Despite being in a constant flip-flopping state of wanting to never remember and being afraid to forget, Louis’ never getting rid of it.

“California,” is all he eventually says, voice quietly wistful. “In Santa Monica.”

***

It takes a full three weeks for Liam to finally break.

Louis walks into the flat after his final lecture of the day, dripping wet from the rainstorm he got caught in from the tube station.

“I swear to fucking God, remind me _please_ to buy a new umbrella,” Louis complains as soon as he enters, slamming the door behind him. He strips off his soaked-through denim jacket and shakes out his hair like a dog.

He always expects Liam to make it back from work before Louis’ last class ends on Friday’s. What he doesn’t expect is to find Liam waiting for him on the sofa, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped together, expression firm and serious.

“Li?” Louis asks cautiously, flicking off his waterlogged Chucks. “Something wrong?”

“How much longer are we going to not talk about it?”

Louis pauses. “What?”

“ _How long_ are you going to –“ Liam starts to repeat himself before eying Louis up and down, cutting himself off. He sighs. “You must be freezing. Go take a shower, then we’ll talk.”

“Erm… okay. I’m a bit confused. What are –“

“Take your shower, Louis.”

“Okay!” Louis placates, palms up defensively. “Okay.”

In the bathroom, Louis strips out of his damp clothes and hums at the steaming hot water. He stands under the spray, nervously chewing the inside of his lip.

Liam’s not a confrontational person. Louis must have messed up particularly badly in order to warrant some type of serious discussion, or whatever the hell his best mate was going on about. He stays in the shower for more than half an hour, as if cowardly hiding away from a conversation he definitely figures he isn’t going to enjoy.

Once dried and clothed in a pair of falling-apart lounge pants and a thick jumper, Louis timidly walks back into the living room, where Liam hasn’t moved an inch.

Louis slowly sits down on the armchair and eyes his best friend. “Okay. What’s this all about, Liam?”

Liam doesn’t answer right away. He takes a deep breath, fidgeting with the fine hairs on his wrists. His eyes roam the room, as if figuring out how to word what he’s trying to say, finally settling on Louis.

“Lou,” Liam’s voice impossibly gentle, “when are you going to tell me about Harry?”

Louis’ stomach drops. He feels the blood in his face instantly drain out of him.

He forces a laugh, “Not sure what you’re on about, Payno.”

“Cut the bullshit, Lou. It’s me. It’s just me.”

His laughter fades, fake smile falling. Fine, different tactic then. “What about him?” He tries to feign indifference, but it doesn’t land and Louis knows it. He can’t even say his name.

“Look, Louis. I’ve been waiting for you to say something. I was _hoping_ you’d finally come to me, let me help you, but you walk around like you’ve got this fucking armour around you all the time, that you have to carry it all by yourself and you _don’t,_ Lou.” Getting worked up, Liam takes a second to compose himself. “I never wanted to say anything because I never thought it was my place to. I still don’t actually, and I’m sorry that I have now, but this has to stop.

“Ever since we came home, you’ve been walking around like a fucking ghost. When you’re not at work or at school, you’re sleeping. You refuse to talk about anything that’s to do with tour and you’ve flaked out on drinks with Sandy and Greg twice and I know it’s because of Harry.” Liam, emotional, takes a laboured breath. “I’m worried for you, Lou. Please, let me help you.”

Louis snorts, eyes swimming after Liam’s speech. He shakes his head, his still-drying fringe falling in his eyelashes. “You can’t help me, Liam.”

“Why not?” Liam presses, insistent.

Louis shoots out of his chair, pacing the space, mind racing with panic as this is the conversation he’s avoided like death for nearly half his life. He fucking knows – Liam _knows,_ has finally figured him out after all this time and Louis wants to scream.

He can’t do this. He has to get out. All the voices in his head are yelling at him – _go, run, nobody is supposed to know!_

“Li, I can’t talk to you about this…”

“ _Why?_ ” Liam asks again, standing. “I love you, Lou. You’re the brother I never had, my best mate and I don’t want to push you. I know it probably feels like I am, but the secrets that you keep are destroying you and I don’t understand why you think keeping them buried is what –“

“Because I’m a freak!” Louis explodes.

Liam stops, mouth fallen slack, eyes round.

“I’m a fucking freak, is that what you want to hear?” The tears are falling freely now and Louis hates it. He hasn’t cried since he went home to see his mum and now it’s all gone to shit. He feels gross and disgusted with himself at Liam finally seeing him for who he is – a pathetic, freakish mess.

Liam is crying, too. He’s looking at Louis, the pity so painfully clear, it’s surely only a matter of seconds before he’s telling Louis to fuck off, telling him to stay away just like Harry did.

 _Harry._ It still hurts so much.

“Lou…” Liam breathes, charging toward him. He wraps his strong arms all the way around Louis, pulling him in to a bone-crushing hug, so tight Louis almost can’t breathe. Except he can – he can breathe a little because his best friend is hugging him and not beating him to a pulp.

“Louis, listen to me. Listen to me because I’m being so fucking serious,” Liam says in his ear, not letting go. “You are _not_ a freak. You’re not an, an abomination or evil or a curse to society, or what other bullshit that people say. You’re a good man. You take care of people, your family, me… _Harry_. I know no one has probably ever said this to you, but I’m saying it now. You’re not any less of a person because of the way you feel. Because of who you lo–“

Liam pulls back a little to look at Louis, both red-cheeked and swollen-eyed. He holds Louis firmly by his triceps, scanning him up and down. His brown eyes are softer, his voice calm, understanding.

“You love him, don’t you?”

Louis lets out a small whimper, before he nods, the slightest tilt of his head, up and down.

“Liam,” Louis whispers, “what do I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“He hates me. He hates me and it’s all I can fucking think about.” Louis wipes at his face and coughs roughly into the back of his hand.

Liam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Liam, you weren’t there,” Louis argues. “The last night in San Francisco, at the party. We – we slept together. He was saying all these things about how, how he felt like he’d been waiting his whole life for me and how beautiful I was and, then in the morning…” A bitter chill rolls down Louis’ spine as the haunting image plays again in his head. “You should have seen the way he looked at me. At how disgusted he was about what we’d done.”

Liam’s quiet for a moment, his grip on Louis’ arms softening a little before speaks again, dead set on being Louis’ voice of rationality.

“Louis, I think there might be more to it than that.”

Liam cuts him off when Louis tries to interject. “You two were tied to the hip practically from the moment you met. You have been the only one to take care of him whenever he got too out of control. The way he looked at you, not that morning, but every other day? The same way you looked at him, mate. Fucking heart eyes, I swear.”

Louis’ head shakes, “I just –“

“You know that fear you feel, right here,” Liam asks, pointing a finger to Louis’ chest, “whenever you think about loving him and what that might mean? How do you know he isn’t just as scared? That he chose the coward’s way out and ran because he hasn’t found a way to handle his own truth yet. Doesn’t know how to handle _you_ yet.”

“Harry’s not a coward,” Louis bites, a defensive wave crashing over him. He relaxes though, when he sees the small smirk on Liam’s lips and figures the dig was purposeful. “Shut it.”

“All I’m saying, Lou, is that I don’t think you should give up hope on him so easily.” Liam’s eyes are so kind, Louis’ heart swells. “You know him better than I do, but I know _you_ , and I know that never in my life have I seen you happier that when you were with him. And I think that’s worth something.”

Louis tries to take in all Liam’s words, but his head is kind of spinning. Could Liam be right? Could Harry really have been just as petrified as he is about what was unfolding between them?

_I’m not allowed to kiss boys._

His heart throbs thinking about him. He misses him. He’s missed him since the second he and Niall left him alone, naked and heartbroken in that California King.

Louis wonders what’s he’s doing now, wherever he is. If he’s been in the studio making music. If he’s been just as miserable. If he misses Louis, too.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it, though?” Louis finally says, dejectedly. “He’s gone. Better to just get on with things.”

Liam sputters. “What? No, Louis. _Of course_ it still matters.”

“He’s gone,” Louis repeats. “He’s off who-knows-where recording his new album. Even if you’re right and he…feels the same way. I wouldn’t even know how to contact him.”

Louis moves past Liam to sit down on the couch, tucking his knees into his chest.

“Besides. I don’t belong in his world anyway. I’m just a nobody student making thirteen quid a week who got to pretend he was important for a few months tagging along on tour.”

Liam comes and sits down next to him, gently shoving at Louis’ shoulder with his own. “Hey. Be nice, that’s my best mate you’re ripping on. I reckon he’s the best lad I know.”

Louis cracks a timid smile, shoving him back.

They fall into a silence. There’s no longer a tense energy, but the silence isn’t exactly comfortable either. Liam sits patiently, knowing that his friend needs time to work up what he’s about to say.

After seven full minutes, Louis just says it.

“I’m gay.”

He announces it to the room, chest rising as he breathes in deep through his nose. He releases the biggest, most relieving exhale when the world doesn’t appear to fall off its axis.

When Liam remains silent to his left, he glances back to him. Liam’s got an amused eyebrow raised, but there isn’t anything unkind about his expression. In fact, the bloke looks pretty happy, smile growing full.

“I think that’s been established, yeah.”

Louis rolls his eyes, elbowing him. “I’m being serious. I’ve – I’ve never said it out loud before. Fuck, I don’t think I even said it to myself either.”

“I know,” Liam says. He pulls Louis back in by the shoulder, Louis relaxing into the hug. “I’m so proud of you, Lou. It doesn’t change anything. I promise you, it doesn’t.”

Louis isn’t quite sold on that part, but all the crying has left him knackered and he isn’t really interested in going ‘round in circles anymore.

“Can you please not tell anyone?” Louis asks quietly into Liam’s shoulder. “Not that I don’t trust you. I’m just not ready to…erm, I can’t have –“

“I understand. I swear on my life.” He pulls his arm back and Louis sits up. “It might not feel like it, but everything is going to be okay. No matter what happens, I’m gonna help you. I promise.”

Louis smiles back at his friend, eyes welling up again. “Thank you.”

Liam slaps his knees, standing up, and Louis laughs at the mood breaker. “Now, that’s enough cryin’ for one day. I’m starving, what’re you thinking? Chinese? Pasta? My treat.”

As they put their raincoats on and Liam gives him his spare umbrella, Louis can’t help but think that maybe the universe doesn’t hate him for being gay.

After all, it gave him Liam.

***

September fades to October and a few days before Halloween, Louis sits on the floor in the backroom of Shady Lady, having just opened the first box of the shop’s newest shipment.

His breath hitches as Harry’s face stares back up at him – his _Rolling Stone_ cover having apparently gone into print. Louis had forgotten about it, not realizing back while he was on set that, _of course,_ his record store was bound to have it in stock at some point.

Carefully, Louis unwraps the cellophane from one of the stacks and pulls out a copy. The once excruciating pain of seeing Harry’s face has recently faded into a still-fucking-there, but duller ache in his chest over the past few weeks. It got easier to distract himself by adding more shifts at work and diving head-first into his studies. Liam’s been great, too, taking him out for drinks and playing footie in the park down the lane from their flat. They’re exactly what they are, though – _distractions._ Louis still goes to sleep every night seeing sage eyes and smelling cinnamon-vanilla candles.

He assesses the cover. It’s a close-up on his face, from the base of his shoulders, up. His hair is blowing artistically to the side, one stray curl flying across his forehead and just barely falling into his made-up eye.

His eyes. Harry’s beautiful green eyes aren’t given any justice by the photo. They’re dull, spark-less to match his stone-faced expression.

Louis remembers how miserable Harry had been, his meltdown after the first show in LA and what that led to… This shot must have been one of the ones taken after Louis had left.

In bold script printed across the photo, it read: “ _OUR ONLY ANGEL – Styles’ Wild American Tour.”_

“Ugh.”

Louis’ stomach churns at the memory of that day in the house on the water with all the windows, people viciously vying for Harry’s attention. Looking down on Louis as if he were a stray dog Harry felt bad for and had decided to take in for the day.

Sure enough, when he flips open the magazine, he finds the rest of the photo spread. Harry in those black leather trousers with girls draped in feathers and lace hanging on him in several different poses, each one more unnatural than the last.

He shuts the magazine without reading the interview. He was there for most of it anyway – he’d rather not read all the ways Harry’s wonderful words have probably been twisted.

Louis flips the switch off in his brain and turns up Led Zeppelin as high as it can go, unpacking the shipment as quickly as he can and stacking them neatly on their cleared-off display.

At the last minute, after closing up shop and locking the cash box, Louis grabs a copy on his way out. He rolls it up and tucks it into his jacket where he can feel the glossy paper under his arm.

For early evening in late October, it’s pleasantly crisp outside. The leaves have all changed and mostly fallen to sprinkle the sidewalks. For as much as he used to gripe about it, there is a spot in his heart for London. It took traveling to a different country, falling in love while seeing a new world, then having it crash and burn to appreciate having something familiar to come home to. And it is. _Home._

Louis’ unhappiness was never London’s fault. It was his unwillingness to find a way to change the narrative.

Deciding to walk home, Louis sticks his hands in his pockets and heads down the street.

He picks up dinner for him and Liam at their favourite chippy and rifles through the takeaway bag to check for extra napkins as he lets himself into his flat. Love him to death, but Liam’s a world-class messy eater.

“Li! Food!”

Louis tosses his keys into the little bowl they keep next to the door and toed off his shoes before pulling out the now-crinkled _Rolling Stone_ from his jacket, warm from Louis’ body heat, and dropping it onto the stained, wooden coffee table.

“Did you read it?”

Hearing the voice, Louis jumps out of his skin, nearly straining his neck looking up from the magazine so sharply. The takeaway falls on top of his feet.

“Ouch, fuck!” He curses, the hot, greasy food burning his skin. He picks up the bag and tosses it onto the table next to the magazine, finally looking up again.

Because Harry is on his couch.

Louis stands there, dumbfounded. He blinks a few times to make sure he isn’t seeing things, wishful thinking and all that annoying bullshit. But Harry doesn’t go away when he opens his eyes again.

He’s dressed down, looking comfortable in a regular pair of blue denim jeans. He’s wearing a dark blue knit jumper with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is out of his face and tied up in a bun, baby curls poking out along his temples and the base of his neck. No makeup. Pink converse on his feet.

He’s biting his bottom lip, his hands gripping his kneecaps as he looks back at Louis apprehensively. Right now, _on Louis’ couch,_ he’s nothing like the sparkling peacock he’d grown familiar with. Shoulders hunched in on himself, trying to make himself look as small as possible despite those fucking Bambi legs.

“Harry,” Louis chokes out, his throat suddenly dry. “What – how’d you get in here?”

“I let him in.”

Liam pops out from the kitchen, in the middle of putting his coat on. He steps into the living area, passing Louis to retrieve the cooling bag of food.

Louis grabs him by the sleeve. “Liam, did you call him here?”

“I didn’t actually. Thought about it enough times.” Liam motions his head in Harry’s direction, but Louis’ afraid to look again. “He showed up half an hour ago.”

Gently pulling his arm out from Louis’ grasp, he hugs him tight, talking quietly into his ear.

“Don’t be afraid, Lou. Just hear what he has to say.” Liam steps out of the hug and walks to the door, taking out his own keys, food still in hand. “I’ll be back later. It was good to see you, Harry.”

“You, too, Liam,” Louis hears Harry answer behind him.

After Liam lets himself out, the flat falls silent. He’s left with no choice other than to turn around and face Harry again, the tension in the air palpable.

All they do is stare at each other for a moment, neither choosing to close the gap between them, until Harry ultimately makes the first move, clearing his throat.

“So, erm, did you read it?” He repeats himself, nodding his head toward his cover.

Louis swallows, anxiously playing with his fingers down at his side.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh.”

Louis sighs, running a hand down his face.

“Aren’t you supposed to be off working on your album or something?” He hopes the question makes him sound indifferent to Harry’s sudden arrival. He’s definitely not supposed to be here, in Louis’ living room, after he made it very clear he didn’t want Louis around him anymore.

“Erm, yeah. I was. Or, technically I’m still supposed to be. I drove down from up North only a bit ago.”

Louis almost forgot how slow Harry speaks sometimes. This small talk makes him want to scream.

“Why’d you come back?” Louis asks him. He wants to know why, after a month, Harry’s showed up on his doorstep. He knows what he wants him to say, but he refuses to get his hopes up.

Harry stands. “Because I need to apologize. Because I couldn’t write one stupid song since I got there.”

He steps forward, still keeping his distance, but approaching Louis with peace-seeking eyes. Even now, after everything, it doesn’t feel right to see him so serious. Harry Styles is a man who, despite being a fucking arsehole, should never not be smiling.

“Niall told me to get off my arse and let myself have what I really want for the first time in my life.”

“And what do you want?”

Harry’s eyes fall right on him. “You.”

“Right. Heard that one before,” Louis scoffs, folding his arms protectively across his chest.

_Please, Lou. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted you._

“Louis, I’m so sorry. I swear, I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, what did you expect, Hazza?” The nickname slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. He ignores it and moves on. “You made me feel like some… predator when we woke up. Like I forced you into my bed.”

“No, Lou!” Harry stepped forward again, brows pinched. “You’re not. You didn’t.”

“Then why the fuck did you leave? Why the fuck did you tell me to stay away when –“ Louis cuts himself off to breathe, his lungs begging for a break. “When all I ever did was be there for you.”

Harry’s eyes glisten behind the tears that threaten to push through.

“Because you scare me,” he whispers.

At his words, Liam’s voice plays in the back of Louis’ head.

_That fear you feel, right here, whenever you think about loving him and what that might mean? How do you know he isn’t just as scared?_

Louis gulps. “Why?”

“I’ve never let myself give in before.”

His mind reels with the implication behind the statement. That maybe, Harry’s been carrying the weight of his secrets on his shoulders for as long as Louis has. Only, he’s had an audience.

Louis can feel his reserve cracking.

Before Louis can reply, Harry speaks again, voice clear and full of a certain determination.

“I owe you an explanation, Louis.”

“No,” Louis shakes his head. “Not about that, you don’t.”

“Please. Besides Niall, you’re the only person I can really talk to and feel safe,” Harry pleads. “Like my life won’t fall apart if I just let go.”

 _It won’t,_ Louis thinks, _I’ll always keep you safe._

“Okay,” Louis says, quietly.

Harry shifts on his feet, obvious in his nerves.

“I was in love once before. Or, close enough, anyway.”

_Oh._

“His name was Zayn. We went to Sunday School together. We were best mates, did almost everything together. Niall was there too, but it felt different somehow, my friendship with Zayn. He was the one who got me into music, since before then my father only let me listen to church music. He got me my first Beatles record, _Norwegian Wood.”_  Harry takes a deep breath. He tries to comb his fingers through his curls before he realizes it’s done up.

“Then he moved away to Bradford, but we would still write each other. Constantly sending letters back and forth because I remember feeling so lost without him. I missed him. I thought about him all the time and I couldn’t really understand why? But then… I don’t know why I did it. I told him in one of our letters that he was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen.”

Louis chews on the inside of his lip, his mind and his heart racing. He’s doing his best to pay attention, to listen. He hates the uncalled for zing of jealousy that rushes through him.

“As I watched the postman empty the postbox, and walk away with my letter,” Harry continues, “I just sunk to the floor, thinking what the fuck I’d done. But then, he wrote back. He said to me that no one had ever held his heart the way I did. So we wrote more. The letters just kept getting more and more intimate and I was so confused, but I’d never felt so free. My first high, maybe. I was high on him.”

Harry falls quiet and Louis can see him retreating back into his head. This time, Louis is the one to take a step forward.

“So what happened?” He asks.

Harry clears his throat. “His parents found the letters and sent him away, but not before calling my father.”

Louis’ blood turns cold as his imagination takes him to a scary place. He remembers where this part of the story might go. He remembers the two of them on the beach, Harry telling him of his wretched father.

“He barged into my room and tore it apart while I was at choir practice until he found them. That’s when he found all my records too and confronted me at the church. He could barely look at me. Niall and I didn’t stay for very much longer.”

There are so many things Louis could say; _I’m sorry for how cruel your father was. I’m glad you had Niall there to help you._

“What about Zayn? Where is he now?” He asks instead, his green-eyed monster getting the best of him.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since.”

Louis nods to himself. “I’m sorry you lost him. He seems really special to you.”

Harry frowns, finally inching close enough to grab hold of Louis’ wrist. Louis lets him.

“Lou, that wasn’t the point of the story. Zayn was special to me, yes, but I made peace with the end of our story a long time ago.” Harry searches Louis’ face, desperate to make him understand. “I told you all of that because it’s part of the reason I keep fucking up. When I first became famous, it was almost as if I suddenly had the whole world breathing down my neck instead of just my father.

“I know it might not make sense, because it shouldn’t have been a shock, right? The attention I’d get once I became so popular, but I really had been so clueless to how much people would care about what I do when I’m not on stage. This life was my escape, my chance at something great, and if the world found out what I really am, it’d ruin me. If I lost this, I thought I’d have nothing left.”

“That’s not true, Haz,” Louis interrupts. “I’ve told you before, your fame doesn’t define who you are. You’d still have Niall. Your bandmates love you so much.”

 _You’d still have me_ is left unspoken. Louis hopes Harry hears it, though.

Harry gives him a small, appreciative smile. “I know. I’m starting to learn that. But for so long, I thought I only had one answer. And I tried, Lou, I genuinely tried. Going out with girls, sleeping with them, hoping it would fix me somehow.” Harry grimaces. “I’d have to get so fucking messed up to even get hard. Nothing ever worked and it was starting to kill me…”

Louis’ suddenly taken back to an image that he’d long since blocked from his memory. The very first time he ever saw him, in that alley behind the Roundhouse. Harry’s head lolled back against the red bus, eyes rolled into the back of his head as he’s got a faceless girl on her knees for him. At the time, all Louis wanted was to be in her position, how lucky she was, when all along Harry was only doing what he thought he had to. It makes Louis sick.

“Kind of killed me, too,” Louis says, then regrets. He focuses on the floor. This isn’t about him, fuck.

Harry squeezes Louis’ wrist.

“Louis, please look at me.”

He does as he’s told. God, he loves Harry’s eyes.

“You are the last thing I expected. I was convinced that I’d never get my happy ending. That I’d end up with a wife and spend the rest of my life pretending I didn’t hate what I’ve done to myself. But then, fuck, then.” Harry’s voice grows thick with emotion. Louis doesn’t think before he reaches out and thumbs away the tension in his brow. Harry lets out a shaky exhale as he does. “Then this boy with feathery hair and a kind smile and the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen walked right into my dressing room and I knew I was fucked. I wanted to be around you all the time and I got so lost in how addicting it was to be your friend that I didn’t realize how serious it had gotten. And after we kissed in my hotel…I freaked out.”

“Wait,” Louis says, confused. “The kiss in your hotel. I thought you didn’t remember?”

“I lied,” Harry whimpered.

Louis’ chest constricts. All the pieces fit together. Harry never lost his memory after a bender, and Louis _knew_ it. It still leaves a small sting, knowing the truth.

“I’m sorry. I was terrified of what would happen next. I just wanted to start over, go back to normal. I know now how much that must have hurt you. That and – and San Francisco.”

Harry chokes out a sob. Louis combs back his hair to comfort him.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

Louis takes both of Harry’s cheeks into his hands, stroking them soothingly.

“Yes, Hazza. I forgive you. I understand now.”

Harry shakes his head in Louis’ hands, shutting his eyes in shame. “What I said was, was so horrible. I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me because I was too scared to love you.”

Louis’ heart stops before it becomes so full it might burst.

“ _Harry._ Harry, love. Stop beating yourself up. You’re here now, nothing’s ruined.”

He wipes away at Harry’s cheeks as he looks back at him. Louis feels his own tears start to fall, completely overwhelmed with how much he loves this boy.

“It’s not?” Harry hiccups, hopeful.

“No, you oaf,” Louis laughs, pulling a smile from Harry. “I’m bloody mad about you. Thought that was fairly obvious by now.”

Harry snorts, dimples deepening, and fuck did Louis miss those. His breathing starts to even out, calming down.

“You know, I have people telling me I’m beautiful, how much they love me every single day and none of it feels as amazing as it does coming from you.”

Louis can’t take it anymore. He surges forward, capturing Harry’s lips in his own. Harry squeaks in slight surprise before melting, moaning into Louis’ mouth. All the hurt and anxiety of the last month slides off his shoulders. Now he really is home.

Louis pecks him again before pulling away to breathe, resting his forehead against Harry’s temple. He snakes his arms down the singer’s long body, wrapping them tight around his waist.

“I’ve been attracted to you since the moment I laid eyes on you. But then I fell for your mind. For your heart. For your soul, Harry.”

“God,” Harry breathes. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got you now, I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s amazing, being so fucking in love with someone and getting to hold them in your arms, knowing they’re completely yours.

They stand there, slightly swaying, every inch of them attached to the other like a lifeline, listening to the sound of their breathing, taking in their smell. Louis remembers to mark this memory in his brain forever.

The moment he got his Harry.

After awhile, their cuddling is interrupted by the rumbling of Louis’ stomach.

“Liam took my fucking dinner,” he mumbles into Harry’s neck.

Harry laughs, slowly pulling out of the hug, which elicits a protesting moan from Louis.

“C’mon, Lou. I’ll make you something.” He extracts Louis’ suction-cup hands from his waist and pulls him into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, grabbing the carton of eggs. Louis comes up and reattaches himself to Harry’s back. Harry giggles. “Oh wonderful, I’ve always wanted my own octopus.”

“Shut up,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s jumper. “You already said you love me. Can’t take it back now.”

“Mm, this is true.” Louis can hear Harry’s smile in his voice.

Harry makes them breakfast for dinner, since the boys don’t keep much else in the flat, Louis keeping close the entire time.

They eat on the couch, legs tangled together, stealing kisses and pieces of bacon. Things quickly move to the bedroom when Harry announces what’s for dessert.

Louis lets himself be carried to the bed, feeling like he’s left his body to exist on another plane as Harry kisses up the length of his body, leaving an “I love you,” behind after every press of the lips.

When morning comes, the sun peeking through the cheap Asda curtains, Harry’s still there, snoring soundly atop Louis’ chest.

Louis stirs at half nine, according to his bedside clock. He blinks away the sleep, finding Harry wide awake and staring up at him.

Louis runs his hand up and down Harry’s smooth back. He studies him, looking for any signs of another morning-after freak out. So far, he doesn’t find any.

“Hey, love. How’re you feeling.”

Two dimples and a tired, closed-lipped smile. “Like the luckiest bloke in England.”

Louis snorts, rolling his eyes before bending his neck to kiss the top of his forehead. “Beg to differ actually. Think that’s me.”

Morning breath be damned, Louis shuffles his body down a bit and moves in to kiss him proper, but Harry stops him.

“I have to go back to the studio.”

Louis pauses mid-lean. He fails to ignore the disappointment sinking in his stomach.

“Oh. Right.” It’s silly, of course, to assume he and Harry could spend the rest of the year in his bed. Harry’s still one of the biggest rock stars in the country with obligations and expectations and all that bullshit, even if they’ve only just laid out all their feelings on the table.

Harry sits up, pulling Louis up as well, lacing their fingers together and placing their joined hands in his lap.

“Come with me.”

Louis stares at him, eying the boy’s wild hair and easy smile. “What?”

“I mean it. Come with me to Cheshire.” He squeezes their hands. “I want you there with me. We’ll have a whole month to ourselves before the band comes to help me record.”

Louis gapes at him. He’ll admit, the offer sounds heavenly. “When? Now?”

Harry rolls his eye and chuckles at him impatiently. “Yes, today. Now.” He looks at Louis with hopeful eyes, the soft morning light shining down on him almost angelically against his smooth, alabaster skin.

God, if Harry Styles isn’t the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.

“Please, Lou?” Harry prompts, nervous edge now present when Louis hasn’t said anything.

Quickly, he thinks of the things holding him back in London: He’s got school. And Shady Lady. Liam.

But then there’s Harry sitting across from him, glowing like the sun, and it’s a no-brainer, really.

Fuck school, he’s always hated it anyway. He’s fairly confident he could ask for his job back if he left again. And Liam’s always going to be there.

“Okay.”

Harry’s whole face illuminates. “Okay?”

Louis can’t hold back his own smile from breaking. “Yeah, Hazza. Let’s go.”

“I fucking love you.”

Harry pounces on him, pushing Louis back down onto the mattress, peppering Louis’ face with kisses as he laughs until his stomach hurts.

There’s a small voice in the back of his head wondering what the hell he’s really in for, but being here, warm underneath Harry with a spark of adventure in his eyes?

Louis says, bring it on.

 

THE END.

 

Original tumblr [post ](https://larrymaybe22.tumblr.com/post/185408905915/larrymaybe22-shine-on-you-crazy-diamond-by)


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